


Relative Relations Across The Related Worlds

by scarletmanuka



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Chronicles of Chrestomanci - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Family, M/M, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-09-10 21:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8939821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletmanuka/pseuds/scarletmanuka
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft are about to introduce their partners to their family. Before they do, they need to explain that their family is a bit bigger than expected and spans several parallel worlds.A threeway crossover between my fave fandoms  - let's hope I do them justice!





	1. In which Mycroft and Sherlock drop a bombshell

They were travelling down a corridor somewhere under the Diogenes club. It was dimly lit, and they had passed only a handful of doors coming off the passageway. Greg’s shoulder brushed John’s and they exchanged a look - one of many they had shared in the previous hour. 

They had been at their regular pub meet up when one of Mycroft’s bodyguards had informed them that the Holmes brothers needed their presence and politely asked them to accompany him. Even after dating the older Holmes for the past eleven months, Greg still felt a spike of intimidation from the armed man. He had tried his best to become friendly with ‘the staff’ but they had remained stoically professional and he had not gotten anywhere. Mycroft had told him not to take it personally since he employed them specifically because they didn’t defer from the job at hand, but it still smarted. He considered himself to be a working man, and he had thought he’d be able to relate to those who were hired for the grunt work. He was essentially one of them after all. 

He and John had followed along without overt complaint, though the dangerous glint in John’s eyes spoke louder than words that Sherlock was going to cop an earful when the army doctor got his partner alone. Greg on the other hand was quite used to the cloak and dagger aspect of his life now and took it in his stride. He certainly was curious however. He hadn’t even known this part of the club existed before now and it seemed rather ostentatious. It definitely played into the dramatic streak the siblings shared.

They eventually reached a door at the very end of the corridor and the bodyguard knocked once, and then pushed open the door. With a nod, he turned and then left the way they had come, leaving Greg and John alone in what appeared to be a Victorian era sitting room. John grunted as he looked around. “Seems excessive.”

Greg hummed non-committedly, knowing it would be explained soon enough so there was no point stressing. He threw himself into one of the plush armchairs and made himself comfortable. The blonde man paced the room for a while until he decided he may as well sit too. It wasn’t much longer until the door opened and the Holmes boys walked in. John was on his feet in an instant. “Sherlock, what the actual  _ fuck _ is going on?” he demanded.

Mycroft crossed to the armchair and bent to give his partner a kiss. “Gregory,” he murmured against his lips.

Greg returned the kiss and smiled broadly up at him. It had taken a long time for him to become comfortable enough to demonstrate his affection around Sherlock and John, but now that he did, Greg drank it in every time. “Hullo, love. Care to explain what’s going on?”

Sherlock had tried to give John a kiss in greeting as well but the angry doctor had shied away, leaving the lanky genius to pout and retreat to the sofa to sulk. 

Mycroft glanced across at the unhappy couple and nodded. “Of course. Best get this explained as soon as possible.”

“And was there a reason you couldn’t explain over the phone? Or at the flat? Or even in your office?” John asked, snarkily.

“Because none of those places are anywhere near secure enough for the information that I am about to impart to you,” the government official explained calmly. 

Greg raised an eyebrow. “ _ Your  _ office isn’t secure enough?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Are you sure we have clearance for this information?” the DI asked. 

Sherlock snorted. “We’ve been filling in the paperwork and working our way through red tape for the past three months to get you both clearance. If I had to meet with the Queen  _ one  _ more time...”

John’s mouth gaped a little at this tidbit of information but Greg noticed it seemed to calm him down a little. Even he was a little in awe at the scale of this operation. Mycroft had bumped his clearance at numerous times over their working relationship and it had seemed almost too easy for him to manage. To have even he jump through hoops spoke to the gravity of the situation. 

“As Sherlock has so eloquently hinted at, the information we are about to impart to you is accessible only to the holders of the highest level of security clearance,” Mycroft explained. “There are generals who hold the codes to nuclear weapons who don’t even have access to this information.”

“So why are we being given it?” John asked, his voice wary. 

“Because it relates distinctly to our family and you have both been part of it for long enough that we know you can both be trusted,” the older brother told them. “Also, since you will hopefully be a part of the family for some time to come, it is something you need to know about.”

“Also, Christmas is coming up and Mummy would be most unhappy if you didn’t join us this year,” Sherlock added.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m sure she would have understood if we were unable to get them clearance, Sherlock.”

“Were you really willing to risk her wrath? You know she’s been nagging us relentlessly to meet our partners.”

“The introductions could be made at any time, brother mine,” Mycroft disagreed. “It’s not like we live that far away.”

“Yes, but she adores Christmas and will be most upset if the newest members of the family aren’t there for the celebrations.”

“Enough!” John thundered, a scowl on his face. “What the bloody hell is going on? And just what exactly does Mummy Holmes have to do with all of this?”

Greg looked to the brothers eagerly, wanting the answers as much as John did.

Sherlock and Mycroft continued to glare at each other but broke it off when John growled at them. The older of the two sat up straighter in his chair and cleared his throat. “What exactly do you know of the theory of multiverses?”


	2. In which Mycroft explains about parallel worlds and John is not convinced.

John laughed. “Multiverses? What is this? Some kind of practical joke?”

“I assure you, Doctor Watson that it is nothing of the sort,” Mycroft told him. “I can assume you’ve heard the theory then?” He turned to the silver haired DI. “What about you, Gregory?”

He shrugged. “Just the usual sci-fi stuff - that there are an infinite number of universes running parallel to one another.” He noted the very serious look on his lover’s face. “Are you saying they exist? That the theory has been proven?”

John snorted. “Come on, Greg! You’re not giving this serious consideration, are you?” He looked around the room, and his face became incredulous. “Sherlock?” He looked imploringly at his partner. “Surely you can’t believe this?”

“Not only do I believe, John,” the genius told him, his baritone voice grave, “but I’ve _been_ to them.”

“What?”

“Well, some of them anyway. Obviously not all of them because that’s just not viable.”

John sank back down into his chair and rubbed at his face. “I’m dreaming. I must be. I simply can _not_ be having this conversation.”

Greg threw the doctor a sympathetic glance, and then gave Mycroft a pointed look. “Maybe you need to explain from the beginning,” he said. “So we understand what’s going on.”

The politician nodded and pushed his brother’s legs out of the way so he could sit next to him on the couch. “You’re both aware that Mummy is a brilliant mathematician, but she gave it up to raise the both of us. What you do not know, however, is that she didn’t give up work entirely. She had been recruited when in university to work with a team of researchers who were convinced Multiverses existed. They had been unsuccessfully trying to prove it, but when Mummy fell pregnant with me, they had a breakthrough. So even though she gave up her main career, she continued to work with the Multiverse researchers because they needed all the help they could get. It was a year before Sherlock was born that their hard work finally bore fruit. They made contact.”

Greg’s mouth dropped open, and he saw John was just as shocked. “Contact? How?”

Mycroft smiled wryly. “In the most incredulous manner possible. John, if you had trouble believing in Multiverses, you’re going to find this next part even more unbelievable.”

“I don't know if that’s possible,” the blonde said.

“It might help if you explain what we know about the other universes, so the next part of the story doesn’t come as much of a shock to John,” Sherlock said to his brother.

Mycroft nodded in agreement. “The parallel universes we know the most about are called The Related Worlds. They’re called this because they speak the same languages and essentially resemble Earth as we know it. There are twelve worlds, but each world is then divided into series. The theory is that when the worlds came into existence, they were singular, but then when a major event occurred in history, they split. Let’s say that a major battle was fought between two armies. There are two possible outcomes, which are both possible. Both cannot exist together though so reality will split and that world will continue on, following the first path, and another world will come into existence which follows the second path. Do you follow?”

“Are you saying there’s a world out there in which the Nazi’s were victorious?” Greg asked, feeling slightly sick at the thought.

Sherlock hummed. “That’s Twelve F. Horrible place. I recommend not visiting.”

“Our world is called Twelve B. In what we gestimate was the Fourteenth Century, our world split off from Twelve A and we took the path of science, machinery, and electricity. Twelve A took a very different path.”

“Steam?” Greg guessed.

“No - magic,” Mycroft said.

Silence fell over the room as this information was digested. Eventually John huffed out a breath and stood, making for the door. “This has all been very entertaining, but I have things to do and I’m not wasting any more of my time on this nonsense.”

Sherlock leapt to his feet and grabbed the doctor by the arm. All signs of his sulk were gone and his eyes were earnest. “John, _please_. I need you to trust me on this. We’re not making this up, I swear on everything we have between us.”

“But it’s just so ridiculous!”

“I know it’s a lot to take in, and I can’t imagine how hard it must be to discover this so late in life. I have grown up with the knowledge and have experienced it first hand my entire life. Soon, very soon you’ll see for yourself, but for now, I need you to trust that we’re telling you the truth. Do you trust me?”

The question hung heavy in the air between them, until John finally gave a small nod. “Fine. But, Sherlock, know this - if you are not being one hundred percent honest with me, and this entire thing is a farce, there is no you and I. It will be over between us. I will not be made a fool of.”

The taller man nodded. “I promise it won’t come to that. You know how much you mean to me, so believe me when I say I gladly agree to those terms because this is real.”

The blonde held his eyes for another long moment, and then returned to his chair. He gestured at Mycroft to continue.

“Magic is common amongst the Related Worlds. Our own world is rather unique in that it has no magic at all, as most other worlds have it in one form or another. Of course, like anything, it can be misused and so there is a ruling body in Twelve A that oversees the use of magic across all Twelve worlds. Heading that body is a man named Chrestomanci. He doesn’t rule or govern, and has no political power per se but when it comes to magic, his power is absolute. It is his job to ensure that magic is only being used as intended and to stop and punish those who misuse it.” He paused and stood to pour a glass of water from the pitcher on the sideboard. “The signals that our scientists were sending, attempting to communicate ended up setting off some magical alarm bells which alerted Chrestomanci to what we were trying to do. He appeared, out of thin air, in the lab one day, looking for answers.”

“What do you mean, out of thin air?” John asked.

“The video footage from the lab is rather entertaining,” Sherlock told him. “One moment he wasn’t there, the next he was. It was a spell of course, but he scared the shit out of several scientists - including Mummy.”

“So that’s what you meant by ‘contact’?” Greg confirmed.

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed. Once the panic had subsided, he was taken to meet with several government and military officials and convinced them he was no threat to us. Since magic is not a part of our world, he saw little interest in it. Of course, he kept an eye out to ensure that those magically inclined didn’t decide to take advantage of the situation and use magic to rule over us, but otherwise he wasn’t overly interested.” Mycroft retook his seat, and crossed his long legs. “This all took years, of course. No government worth their salt would take a strange man at his word, even if he did prove time and time again that he could perform magic. In the end we essentially came to a ‘we’ll ignore you, and you ignore us until something goes wrong’ policy. It wasn’t until his successor came along at about the same time I started in my position that relations grew much more cordial.”

Greg held up a hand to pause him. “Sorry if this will be jumping ahead, but how exactly does your family fit into all of this - not including your mother’s help in the research. You said you had family ties?”

Mycroft nodded. “In a very roundabout way. In most worlds, you have a counterpart - someone who resembles you genetically. Personalities are usually vastly different since they develop due to environmental interactions but there can be no doubt that they are another version of _you_. It turns out that the Holmes family in this world is closely related to the Chant family in Twelve A. Chrestomanci is a title - and the new Chrestomanci’s actual name is Christopher Chant. My counterpart there is one of his cousins.”

“So you used your family ties to foster a closer relationship with this parallel world?” John asked.

“Oh no,” Mycroft said with a small laugh. “We didn’t even know at the time we were related. No, we were forced to work together when we discovered a whole other world, one that no one knew existed. It was entirely flat, and it moved through space by way of a giant turtle.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter will be up in roughly a week. Hope you're enjoying it so far, though I have a feeling there's not many out there who are familiar with all three fandoms. Even if you don't know one or two of them, I hope you enjoy it anyway :)


	3. In Which Mycroft Explains About The Discworld

John burst out laughing. “Now you have _got_ to be kidding us.”

Mycroft smirked. “Believe me, John, when I was told of our discovery, I had everyone in the lab drug tested - myself included. I thought a mass hallucination was much more likely than a Discworld.”

“Can I request a drug test now?” the doctor asked.

“Perhaps I can finish explaining and then if you still want one, I can arrange it?”

The blonde nodded. “Okay, that’s fair.”

“So, was this other world a threat to us?” Greg asked. He was captivated by the story. He had been sceptical at first, much like John, but it was so utterly bizarre that there was no way it could not be real.

Mycroft shook his head. “No, but of course we didn’t _know_ that. I contacted Chrestomanci to find out what he knew of it, and he was shocked because he didn’t know of it at all. He said he would return to his world to investigate to see if it was possible to get there and the PM wanted to arrange a military escort to go with him. Chrestomanci refused, but said he would allow one man to accompany him, and chose me. He said the spell and suddenly I was standing in the middle of a pentagram in a round room at the top of a tower. I was in Twelve A.” He smiled at the memory. “Once we were there, we were free to talk openly. We had of course noticed the family resemblance and ascertained we were in fact related. Well, as related as one can be to a counterpart in a parallel universe. He said that was why he trusted me, and I knew straight away that I could trust him too.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft ignored this. “It took him and his team over a week to find a way to this new world. In that time I explored as much as I could, and began to catalogue the differences between our worlds. When he told me they had finally found a way, I was almost beside myself with excitement. It was difficult since I don’t have Witch Sight, but Chrestomanci guided me through The World’s Edge, a place in between all the worlds. Despite being a disc, this world seemed to be part of the Related Worlds. We believe that it may have been one of the first worlds, that during the Big Bang there could have been two likely possibilities - the world ended up round, or it ended up flat, and they then went their separate ways. The languages are very similar and the fact we could get there via The World’s Edge leant that theory a lot of weight.” He shrugged. “We’ll never know for sure. Anyway, we found ourselves coming out of a wardrobe in a bedroom and almost immediately there was a knife at each of our throats.”

“Nice welcome,” Greg said drily.

“We’re lucky we weren’t killed outright,” Mycroft said, then laughed. “It turns out that we had arrived inside The Patrician’s Palace in a city called Ankh-Morpork. As well as being a tyrant, Lord Vetinari is also an assassin. It was he who was holding a knife in both hands and threatening to slice our throats.”

Greg gasped, he was so caught up in the story. “Really, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Spoiler alert! He obviously used his silver tongue to talk his way out of the situation. No need for dramatics.”

He threw the consulting detective a rude gesture and then waved at Mycroft to continue with the narrative.

“Vetinari guessed that there was more afoot than an assassination attempt and allowed us to explain. Once we had convinced him of our intentions, he called for the Archchancellor of Unseen University and he and Chrestomanci got into a very animated discussion about this latest discovery. While they were caught up in that, I noticed that Vetinari bore an eerie resemblance to Sherlock and Chrestomanci, and he thought I looked very much like a distant relative of his. It was obvious that once again we were all related in some manner.”

“What are the chances that of all the people you could meet, you managed to meet these specific people?” Greg exclaimed.

“Ridcully - that’s the head wizard in Ankh-Morpork - put it down to quantum. He wasn’t at all surprised as these things have a way of happening in such a manner. Anyway, long story short, the three of us - Chrestomanci, Vetinari, and myself - agreed to meet regularly to learn more about our worlds. When Mummy found out, she demanded to be introduced and so the next time we met in this world, I took both her and Sherlock along. Since then we’ve tried to have a family get together once a year at the very least. It generally falls at this time of the year and we take it in turns as to which world we meet in. This year it’s here and will be at the manor house in the country.”

“And both of you are expected to attend,” Sherlock told them. “Mummy will be most cross if we put off the introductions any longer.”

“Do you have anything from these other worlds that prove all this?” John asked, unwilling to let his skepticism go.

“Due to the secrecy of this knowledge, we tend to not cart magical objects around with us, John,” Mycroft told him. “Chrestomanci has enough trouble as it is with certain groups trying to exploit the natural resources of the Related Worlds. Could you imagine what would happen if this became widely known? No, we take every precaution to keep this on the down low. There is some trade between us, but it’s not extensive. Our world isn’t prepared for magic, and their worlds couldn’t handle our scientific advances.”

“I suppose that’s fair enough,” John relented.

“Once you meet the others, you’ll have all the proof you’ll require,” Sherlock assured him.

The doctor huffed out a sigh, and gave in. “Fine. It’s insane, but whatever. When are we going?”

“We’ll head up after work finishes the day before Christmas Eve,” Mycroft told them. “The others will start arriving the following day.”

Sherlock stood and held a hand out to John. “Shall we go home? Give you some quiet to process this all in.”

John nodded, and took the offered hand. A look of relief flashed over Sherlock’s face, a telling sign that he was worried John was still upset with him.

Once they had left, Greg clapped his hands together and grinned at Mycroft. “This sounds like it’s going to be good!”

His partner crossed to him and ducked to give him a kiss. “I’m glad you’re taking this in your stride, Gregory. I was most worried you’d think me crazy and wash your hands of me.”

The DI rolled his eyes. “Honestly, you have no idea how exciting you make my life. I’m not ever letting you go.”


	4. In Which Greg and John Meet The Parents

Greg had known that the Holmes’ were wealthy. It was in the little things - the way that both brother’s preferred the finer things; the fact that although Sherlock didn’t have a steady income he always had the latest designer suits and scientific equipment; the fact that Mycroft never even blinked when dining out at the fancier restaurants. It spoke of a family wealth, of never having to worry about the last few days between paycheques, of growing up secure in the fact that everything you could ever want or need would be provided. However, _knowing_ something and _seeing_ it are two completely different things.

As the car pulled into the long drive of the Holmes Family Manor, the DI’s mouth had dropped open and he was rendered speechless. Sitting proud upon the crest of a low hill was an honest to God fucking mansion. He could see two broad wings sprawling out to either side of round stone towers, and further away to the right were numerous outhouses and stables. He glanced over at John and was happy to see that he wasn’t the only one floored by this reveal. As the car pulled to a stop and they all climbed out, the inspector and the doctor clustered close together, and then subconsciously found themselves crowding behind the two brothers, seeking their protection. Sherlock noticed and rolled his eyes. “Honestly, you two are embarrassing yourselves.”

“You never said you owned a fucking castle!” John exclaimed.

“It’s not a castle, John.” Mycroft explained calmly. “A castle is a fortress, and the manor home wouldn’t withstand the initial charge of a well equipped army.”

“Or even a poorly armed one,” Sherlock added. He took a deep breath and pushed his shoulders back. “Come along, let’s get this over and done with.”

They made their way towards the broad stone steps leading up to the front door only to find it opening before they reached it. An older couple came out and the woman rushed towards Sherlock and embraced him warmly. “Lockie! It’s so good to see you.”

“Mummy,” he replied, his voice muffled from the way his face was being pressed into her shoulder.

She stepped back and although he tried to evade capture, pulled Mycroft into a hug as well. “Myc, it’s been too long,” she chided.

“It really hasn’t, Mummy,” he said.

She let him go and then turned to look at Greg and John. “Oh, look at how handsome you two are! I’m glad the boys finally brought you along so we could meet you. I was getting very miffed with them!” She glanced sternly at her sons but there was a twinkle in her eye. “I’m Margaret but you can call me Maggie. This is William,” she introduced her husband.

Greg and John both gave Maggie a kiss on the cheek and then shook hands with William. He was tall and grey, and had a vague look to him but he smiled broadly at them. “Come on inside,” William told them. “It’s too cold to be standing on the front step!” Greg didn’t have the heart to tell him that the grand entrance they were standing on was a little too fancy to be a mere ‘front step’, so he just smiled and picked up his bag and followed him in. “Why don’t you boys show Greg and John upstairs so you can drop off your bags, and I’ll pour us all a little something to warm up a little,” William suggested. “Then we can all have a little chat so we can get to know one another a bit better.”

Mycroft and Sherlock groaned in unison, and Greg couldn’t help but grin at their antics. Even if he wasn’t going to be meeting people from different _universes_ tomorrow, it would still be the most fun he’d had in a long time.

oOoOo

Despite the grumblings from the two siblings, the previous evening had been both relaxing and enjoyable. They had been roused rather early the next morning by Maggie, who put them all to work decorating the large dining room. “We don’t reside here,” she explained to Greg and John as they hung strands of tinsel. “We live just out of London, and only got here the day before yesterday. I’ve been so busy with everything else that I hadn’t had a chance to put up the decorations. I want them to be extra special this year since Sam is bringing his little one.”

“Sam?” Greg asked.

“Havelock’s partner, Samuel Vimes. Young Sam must be about six now, isn’t that right, Myc?”

“Something like that,” the politician replied, slightly distracted by his task of untangling a set of Christmas lights.

“He’s such a dear,” Maggie continued. “He’s a policeman like you, Greg, so I’m sure you’ll have lots in common. He’s been so good for Havelock, though it’s a shame that they got together after such tragic circumstances.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“He’d been alone most of his life - married to the work, you know - and then he met a woman called Sybil during that whole dragon fiasco -”

“Excuse me, did you say _dragon_?” John interrupted, almost falling off the step ladder he was perched on.

“Yes, one of the big ones, not the small swamp dragons that are kept as pets.” Maggie seemed oblivious to their shock, and continued to sort through the box of ornaments in front of her as if dragons were a common, everyday occurrence. Though on this Discworld, they must be just that, thought Greg. “Anyway, suddenly Sam went from being the Captain of the Night Watch, to the Duke of Ankh and he very nearly retired after he was married. Couldn’t stay away though, and Havelock promoted him to Commander of the City Watch. Then Sybil fell pregnant, but she had a very difficult pregnancy and didn't survive the birth. Sam was left a widower with a newborn, and as much as he tried to keep it together, it was just too much.”

“That’s horrible,” Greg murmured, his heart breaking a little for the man he hadn’t even met yet.

“We didn't know him back then,” Maggie told him. “Of course, we’d heard a lot about him from Havelock, since he’d been smitten with Sam for years. He spoke so much about him that it was as if we _had_ met him!”

“Mummy,” Mycroft chided. “I’m sure Havelock wouldn’t appreciate you gossiping about him.”

“It’s not gossip when it’s about family, Myc.”

“Yes, it really is.”

She brushed off his concerns and handed him a large wreath. “Be a dear and go and hang that on the front door.” Once he had left, she turned back to Greg and John, who didn’t mind at all if it was gossip, as they both wanted to know what happened next. “So Havelock stepped up, and started helping Sam out. They’d always had a bit of a charged relationship, butting heads and arguing, but they’d always both had the best interests of the city at heart so there wasn’t any actual malice in it. Still, it was unusual for Havelock to take such an interest and several of the Guild masters gave him quite a hard time about it. They didn’t think it appropriate for a tyrant to play favourites, but he soon put them straight since he can be quite fierce when he needs to be.”

“Mycroft mentioned he’s an assassin,” Greg said, trying to picture what the Patrician must be like.

“Oh yes, but it’s not just that that strikes fear into the heart of people. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him, though I doubt you’ll be too alarmed since you’ve worked with Myc in some capacity.”

“Ah.” Greg and John shared a knowing look.

“He really is a sweetheart, underneath that icy cold exterior, and he helped Sam through a very difficult time. At some point their relationship took that next step and they’ve been together ever since. The last time we held the gathering here, Sam couldn’t make it so this will be his and Young Sam’s first time in Twelve B.”

William and Sherlock appeared in the doorway with a large tree, freshly cut, and the conversation ended as they all set to decorating the tree. They stopped for lunch at midday and finished the decorations just before 3pm. Mycroft checked his watch and smiled at Greg and John. “It’s time,” he said. “Christopher and Millie will be arriving any moment. Shall we?”

They followed him through the dining hall and into the round room at the bottom of one of the towers. There was a clear space in the centre, and on the flagstone floor was drawn a five pointed star. Greg’s eyes locked on it, unsure of what to expect, but feeling the air in the room almost seem to thicken. And then, there seemed to be a small black speck in the very centre, growing slowly. It was soon big enough that he could make out that it was in fact _two_ specks, and they were very small people. They appeared to be walking, and getting steadily bigger. Before he knew it, there was a tall, willowy man and a plump, kind faced woman standing in the centre of the room. 

“Hello, Christopher,” Mycroft greeted him warmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll get to properly meet Christopher and Millie, and Havelock and Sam in the next chapter. Thanks to those who are reading :) This isn't beta'd (since I have no one who really knows all three fandoms) so if you notice any mistakes I appreciate the heads up!


	5. In Which The Visitors Arrive

Greg sat alone on the outskirts of the room, watching the people around him and trying to come to terms with what was going on. An hour ago he had watched two people appear by magic in the centre of the room. During the introductions he had been informed that Christopher was a Nine-Lifed Enchanter and his lovely wife, Millie, was a powerful enchantress in her own right, oh, and by the way, she also used to be a living Goddess. Then he’d watched as Christopher had performed an incantation that caused flames to sprout up from the five sided star on the floor, and summoned the rest of their gathering. The three people who stepped calmly from the flames (though how they weren’t cripsy, Greg had no idea because his face had been flushed from the heat they were putting out) had come from a world that was flat, and not only that, but it moved through space balanced on the back of four colossal elephants that perched rather precariously on top of an enormous bloody turtle. 

And really, it wasn’t even the magical aspect of the entire situation that he was having trouble accepting. No, what he was struggling with was the fact that they were  _ all the same _ . He had thought that Sherlock and Mycroft were anomalies. They were both so brilliant, and clever and more intelligent than anyone he’d ever met and he just didn’t think it was possible for there to be more of them. But there were. And they were standing in front of him. Debating something called quantum and how it affected magical realms. 

Not only were their minds alike, but there was no way anyone could look at them and miss the resemblance. They were from differing worlds but you would think they were all brothers. They were all tall and willowy, all lean planes and sharp angles. Their eyes were the palest of blue, and apart from Mycroft, had black hair. A frizz had appeared in Christopher’s locks after he’d worked his spell, and he admitted that when he didn’t take the time to straighten it, his hair was as curly as Sherlock’s. Mycroft and Havelock had the same thin lipped smile, and each seemed capable of piercing glares. 

“You look how I felt when I first saw them all together,” a voice came from his elbow and Greg pulled his eyes away to see Sam standing next to him. He was about Greg’s age, his brown hair slowly turning grey and he was solidly muscled. He had warm chocolate brown eyes, and the DI had the uncanny feeling that it wasn’t only the men across the room that could pass as relatives. The appraising look that Havelock was throwing him every now and then confirmed his suspicions.

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, it’s a bit to take in.”

“I almost died when I discovered that not only did they  _ look  _ quite a bit like Havelock, but they could be as bastardly as him too.” Sam quirked a smile and took a sip of his orange juice.

“Yeah, I don’t like our chances of winning an argument while in the same room as any of them,” Greg admitted.

The Commander snorted. “Not a chance. I was a bit chuffed to find out there were going to be some regular folk around this time. Give me someone to talk to. I mean, William and Maggie are nice and all, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not quite comfortable with all of this.” He waved his hand vaguely around the room.

“Tell me about it,” Greg sympathised. “I couldn’t believe that a family could own such a posh house and then to find that they don’t even  _ live _ here…” He shook his head. “Dunno why I was shocked to learn about alternate universes when this is a whole different world to the one I live in.”

“I was thrust into this kind of life when I was married and never got used to it. It’s just not who I am.” He grimaced, and then turned it into a smile. “I think Maggie and Millie have gone outside with Young Sam. He said something about seeing cows. Want to come for a walk with me and see where they’ve gotten to?”

“Sure.” He glanced across to where John was sitting, and seeing he was engrossed in a conversation with William, was happy he wasn’t leaving his mate to the wolves. 

They made their way outside into the chill December air, the sky darkening rapidly, and headed towards the paddocks beyond the stables. “So, Havelock tells me you’re a copper?” Sam commented, pulling a cigarette out and lighting it with a match. The flame flared briefly, sending light dancing across the darkness of his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m a Detective Inspector with the homicide division.” Greg breathed in the scent of the smoke, and rubbed absently at the patch on his arm, wishing he and Mycroft had waited till the new year to try and quit again.

“Enjoy it?”

“The hours are shit, it’s a thankless job, we’re understaffed, the paperwork is never ending, and I see the very worst of humanity.” He cut a glance at Sam and grinned. “I fucking love it.”

The Commander laughed. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s a horrible job, but it has its satisfactions.”

“Have you always been a copper?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, never even thought of doing anything else. My Da was a Watchman, and so was his Da and so on. Thought of giving it up once or twice, and I took a bit of time away when my wife died, but never could resist the call. There’s just something about the chase.”

Greg nodded and was about to respond when a movement caught his eye. He turned his head, staring at the copse of trees a hundred meters away, trying to see what was there.

“Something wrong?” Sam asked curiously.

Greg strained his eyes but couldn’t see anything. He eventually shook his head, but couldn’t shake the feeling of having eyes on him. “Nah, just thought I saw something. Probably a fox or something I guess.” He grinned wryly. “I’m an old city copper who’s out of his comfort zone here in the county.”

“I know the feeling,” the other man said, his eyes lingering on the patch of trees, his policeman senses tingling too. 

Greg started walking again and his ears picked up the sound of voices. Soon their companions came into view and Young Sam shouted when he saw his dad. He ran up to him and threw muddy arms around his legs. “I found a cow, Daddy!” 

Sam patted him on the head. “Really? And how did it go?”

“It went ‘ _ moo _ ’!” the boy said and broke into giggles.

His dad laughed at their obvious private joke and he swung the boy up into his arms. “Fancy that. Did you see anything else?”

“Maggie’s neighbours have sheep and we got to go up to the fence and watch them and one of them came right up to us and I got to pet him through the wire.”

They turned back to the house and Greg found himself walking next to Millie as Young Sam told his dad all about his adventures. “Are you having a good time?” she asked, a sunny smile on her lips.

He found himself smiling in return. “Yeah, I am. It’s all a bit weird, but it’s been good to see Mycroft relaxing. I don’t usually get to see much of this side of him.”

She nodded in understanding. “Christopher is much the same. It’s hard to relax when there’s such a large responsibility on your shoulders.”

“I also think it’s because there’s people here who are his intellectual equals. I try - God knows I try, but I’ll never be able to keep up with Mycroft at his best. When Sam and I left, he was chatting with Christopher and Havelock and it just seemed so easy for him. He and Sherlock were even behaving for once. I never realised how much he has to hold back, I suppose. How hard he has to work to be diplomatic, even in day to day conversation. It must be exhausting.”

She linked her arm companionably with his. “He’s lucky to have someone like you, someone who understands that it’s not easy. Many people find Christopher to be rude and dismissive, but most of the time it’s just because he’s so caught up in fixing everyone else’s problems. I’m not saying he  _ can’t _ be a complete prat,” she said with a laugh. “But most of the time it’s just a lack of understanding.”

“Most people don’t want to understand.”

“No, they don’t. As long as they have us, they’ll be fine though. But remember, Greg - it can be hard on us as well. You know others now, who know what it’s like and you can always talk to Sam or myself if you need too.”

He smiled. “Cheers for that. John and I have regular pub days to debrief, but I’ll keep that in mind. Not that it’ll be easy to get in touch…”

“It’s easier than you think. I’ll make sure Christopher sets something up before we go so you have a way of contacting us. It never hurts to have contingency plans.”

He felt a weight lift from his shoulders, a weight he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying. His subconscious had recognised that along with the knowledge of parallel worlds and magic would come new dangers and threats. Mycroft, in his liaison role, would paint a target and Greg felt exponentially better at knowing he’d have a way of getting hold of people qualified to help if that happened.

They had almost reached the house when a howl sounded behind them, causing them all to freeze in place, a tingle of fear shooting to their very core. 

“What on earth was that?” Millie exclaimed.

Sam looked out over the darkening landscape with suspicious eyes. “It sounded very much like a wolf.”


	6. In which The Patrician Gets To Know The Detective Inspector

They stepped inside, out of the cold and made their way towards the dining room. “I don’t think we get wolves around here,” Greg said.

“No, not wild ones,” Maggie confirmed as they entered the large but cheery room. Four pairs of pale blue eyes snapped over to them, questioning. “You all heard it as well?” 

“Could have been a werewolf,” Sam said ominously. “They sound exactly like real wolves.”

“I don’t think we get them around here, either,” Greg told him lightly. He paused, and threw a concerned look at Mycroft. “Erm, do we?”

The politician shook his head. “No, not here. There’s magic woven into their very DNA so they don’t exist here, since there’s no magic. Same for vampires, and golems.”

“It was probably just a dog,” Maggie said, ushering them all to their seats. “Let’s not revert back to caveman days when a lonely howl made us quiver in our caves.”

Greg noticed that Sam looked as if he wanted to comment, but forced himself not to. There was obviously history there with the beasts, but he didn’t know him well enough to ask questions yet. He took a seat next to Mycroft and Havelock sat on his other side, with Young Sam between himself and the Commander. The table was groaning under the weight of the food piled on it and he felt his stomach give a rumble. 

William and Maggie stood from their places and with a vague look, Mr Holmes tapped his glass with a spoon. Once the chatter had died down, he beamed at his dinner guests and then at his wife, who cleared her throat. “I just want to say how happy I am that you’ve all managed to be here with us this year. Our family isn’t exactly normal, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.” She smiled fondly at everyone.

“No need to stand on ceremony,” William said. “Tuck in!”

Platters were picked up and passed around the table as they served themselves, and Greg allowed himself to relax and just listen to the conversations going on around him, taking it all in.

“Eww, what are those?” Young Sam wrinkled his nose as his father spooned spouts onto his plate.

“Doesn’t matter what they are, you’ll eat them all up.”

“But they’re green. And not a good green, but a sick green.”

“Green is good for you, Sam. You need more green.”

“Don’t be silly, John. She’s obviously not a Goddess anymore,” Sherlock stated with a roll of his eyes.

“Yes, well, it’s not something you hear every day, is it? How am I supposed to know how it works?”

“Obvious, really.”

“Don’t listen to him, John,” Millie said. “Even I didn’t know exactly how it worked, and I  _ was _ the Living Asheth.”

“There’s no better way to relax,” Christopher was telling Mycroft seriously. “I highly recommend it.”

“I’m not sure I could manage so much...casual,” the redhead replied carefully. “My dear brother is better at pulling that off.”

“That’s why you don’t go with a boring, run of the mill one. I have a different one for every day of the year and they’re all  _ extravagant _ .”

“But don’t you get called away magically at random? Whenever you’re needed? Surely you’d not want to be called away in something so...unprofessional?”

“If someone has gotten themselves into so much bother that they require my magical assistance, Mycroft, then they take me as I am. If they have a problem with a fabulous dressing gown, then they can ask someone else for help.”

“Sam, I have a little something for you to take back for Cheery,” Maggie said. “Can you remind me to give it to you before you leave?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing too cumbersome - just some nice ties I thought she could use when she braids her beard.”

“They don’t exactly sound uniform compliant.”

“Honestly, Sam - she’s not always on duty you know. I thought she could wear them when she meets up with that young lad of hers.”

“ _ What? _ Since when has Cheery being seeing someone?”

“You see but you do not observe, Samuel Vimes. She was already serious with him last year when we visited with you for Hogswatch.”

Taking advantage of the Commander’s distraction, Havelock speared the two sprouts on Young Sam’s plate and moved them to his own. He winked at the boy who grinned back, and then turned to Greg. “You seem to be taking all of this in your stride,” he noted, waving around vaguely with his fork.

The DI shrugged. “I knew when I got together with Mycroft that life would be different with him. Sure, I didn’t realise it would be  _ this _ different, but I’m nothing if not adaptable.”

“You’d have to be, especially in your line of work. Sherlock tells me that he consults with you on certain cases?”

“Yeah, he does. Blew me away with that bloody intellect of his. I didn’t think there could be anyone smarter, and then I met his brother.” He grinned wryly. “And now I find out there’s even more of you! Kind of makes a man feel a little bit insecure about his capabilities.” 

“Don’t be,” Havelock told him seriously, his pale blue eyes intense. “Sherlock speaks very highly of you, and it’s rare that he doles out the compliments.”

“Don’t I know it,” Greg grumbled, but was secretly pleased that his consulting genius had praised him to others. 

“Besides, intellect by itself can only get you so far and is more lonesome than you could ever know. Sam taught me that it’s not a bad thing to actually feel every now and then.”

“I see you all share the same romantic streak,” the DI quipped.

Havelock rolled his eyes but conceded the point. “Overt displays of emotion have never been our thing.”

“ _ Caring is not an advantage, _ ” Greg quoted.

“I may have once thought that, when I didn’t realise what a powerful motivator love could be. It’s all well and good to understand how it drives others, but to have never really experienced it personally...well, once I had, I recognised the benefits immediately.”

“And are you happy?” It was a deeply personal question, but he felt the Patrician wouldn’t take offense.

“My life took a turn that I never expected it too,” he said in a thoughtful voice. “I had always prided myself on being organised and focused, and my only priority was to the city. My younger self would probably be mortified to even think about matters of the heart creeping into the equation. But they have, and the city has not suffered for it - in fact, because of Sam’s position and his own dedication to Ankh-Morpork, it’s actually benefited. Knowing that, it has made it easier to accept my feelings. I can honestly say I’ve never been happier.”

“It almost sounds like you don’t think you deserve to be happy.” It was eerily similar to Mycroft’s thoughts before they’d gotten together.

“It has nothing to do with deserving to be happy. My purpose was to serve the city and the people and my own desires always came secondary to that.”

“Well I’m glad that you’ve discovered that the two aren’t mutually exclusive.” He scooped some more peas onto his plate. “So, I’m told you’re an assassin...how does that mesh with running a lawful city?” He tried to keep the accusation from his voice, but was unable to do so completely.

One of the Patrician’s eyebrows quirked upwards in amusement. “It appears lawmen across the related Worlds all seem to have a common distrust of assassins.”

“Can you blame us?”

“I suppose not. I attended the Guild school and was trained as an assassin, however I am not a practicing one. The Assassins Guild operate under strict rules, as do all of our Guilds, and it seems to work for us. If you’re going to have crime anyway, why not make it organised? At least this way I have oversight of them and can keep them in check.”

Greg nodded, conceding the point. “I suppose so.”

“It’s an unorthodox approach, and it might not work for everyone, but it works for Ankh-Morpork.”

“I guess that’s all that matters.”

They spoke of other things then, more inconsequential and less personal matters. Dinner finished and after a quick night cap, most of their party called it a night. Greg climbed into bed, exhaustion washing over him and as soon as Mycroft’s warm body pressed up against him, he found himself drifting off to sleep. A howl echoed from the distant hills but he couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or if it was really happening. He snuggled closer into his partner’s chest, just as an answering howl rang out hauntingly across the valley.

 


	7. In Which Greg Inadvertently Almost Commits Grevious Bodily Harm Through The Use of Good Manners

Christmas day dawned damp and cold, with a steady drizzle falling. They had agreed on a ‘no gift’ rule since the risk of introducing unknown technology to other worlds was too great, so Greg and Mycroft exchanged a few small gifts in their room before they went down to breakfast. Once everyone had finished eating, Maggie commandeered her sons to help with getting lunch ready, and Greg and John were only more than happy to offer their services. 

Greg was handed the carving kit and asked to slice the ham. “I think Mycroft would be better skilled at this than me,” he protested weakly after seeing the dirty look his partner threw him from where he had been put to work whipping cream. 

Maggie glared at her son. “Oh no. I know too well just how skilled my eldest is with a knife and I’d much rather not think about such things whilst eating Christmas dinner.”

Mycroft’s cheeks flushed, and he lowered his eyes back to his task. Greg had often wondered just how much his parents knew about his work with the security forces and what had led him to develop a distaste for  _ legwork _ . Maggie’s response seemed answer enough. “Oh, okay.”

“I could do it,” Sherlock offered, a gleeful expression on his face.

“And have you get distracted halfway through? You’ve already destroyed two Christmas dinners by experimenting on them, Sherlock,” Maggie told her son pointedly. “It would be a disgrace to my intelligence if I allowed that to become three.”

Sherlock pouted and then turned back to his task of peeling carrots, grumbling under his breath about the validity of his experiments on cooked ham exposed to differing chemicals found in a food preparation environment.

Resigned to a morning of sulking brothers, Greg began to carve the ham until he had a respectable pile. He had seen Maggie getting serving platters out from a cabinet at the end of the kitchen and he went and dug around until he found a well used silver platter. He pulled it out and gave it a cursory wipe with a cloth, and then went to transfer the meat onto it. He almost dropped the platter when three voices simultaneously cried out “ _ No! _ ”. The platter was whipped out of his hands by Mycroft, and a ceramic one was shoved into them by Sherlock, and Maggie stood with her hand over her heart, looking like she was going to faint.

“Erm…” He had never been so confused before in his life.

“Apologies, Gregory,” Mycroft told him as he all but threw the platter back into the cupboard and shut the door firmly. “I should have warned you that we are unable to use anything silver.”

“Good heavens, that was  _ close _ ,” Mummy Holmes gasped. “I would never have forgiven myself.”

“Why?” John asked, just as confused as the DI.

“It would have been the very worst of bad manners,” she explained, without actually explaining anything at all.

“Most people would think using the nicest stuff to be  _ good _ manners,” Greg grumbled, feeling like he’d committed a horrible faux pas but still not understanding what he did wrong.

Surprisingly, it was Sherlock who gave them an explanation, whilst Mycroft hurried to make his mother a soothing cup of tea. “Christopher has a horrible allergy to silver. Most nine-lifers have something, a bit of an Achilles’ Heel for want of a better term. Small exposures will render him incapable of performing most magic, whilst prolonged exposures, especially skin on skin contact make him very ill. Mummy takes great pride in not poisoning her guests.”

“That explains the stainless steel cutlery,” Greg mused, thinking back to dinner the night previously. He’d noted it at the time, thinking it out of place amongst the finery but was too preoccupied with getting his head around the situation to give it much more thought than that.

“Oh, well done, Lestrade!” Sherlock looked both impressed and also proud. Greg tried not to be offended since he knew the young genius thought most people were imbeciles, but he was good at his job even without the help of the consulting prat. He may not have been able to make deductions to the same degree but he had a knack for observations.

“Yes, well, crisis averted,” Mycroft declared, handing Maggie her tea. “Let’s not dwell on the what could have beens.”

“Anything else we need to know?” John asked, an amused smile on his lips. “Anyone melt if they come into contact with water?”

“Don’t be absurd, John,” Sherlock said crisply. “We’re not on Six E.”

“Now, now boys, no snipping at each other. It is Christmas afterall.” Maggie looked much better and recommenced her role of taskmaster. “Right, we still need to get these vegetables roasted, the trifle put together, and the kitchen tidied. Chop, chop!”

 

Greg found himself sitting between Sam and John this time at the table and the Roundworlders took great pleasure in quizzing the man from the Discworld about their celebration.

“You called it Hogs...something?” John said.

“Hogswatch,” Sam confirmed with a nod. “It’s very similar to what you do here, although it’s on the 36th of December so also a bit like your New Year’s Eve celebrations I suppose. Young Sam is going to be ecstatic this year since we’ll get home just in time for it. He’s being spoiled rotten.” He looked over at his son fondly, who was sitting between Sherlock and Christopher. They had gathered all the jokes from the crackers and were giggling as they took turns reading them out. It appeared the lame humour of cracker jokes crossed the barrier between worlds. 

“So, is it a religious celebration there as well?” Greg asked, absolutely fascinated. 

“I guess that’s where it’s similar to here as well,” Sam mused. “Traditionally the Hogfather is the embodiment of one of the old winter gods, but nowadays it’s more about him coming to visit the children with presents, like Santa, and the family gathering. Of course, the shops put out their decorations months in advance, and parents spend a small fortune on their kids.”

“Crass commercialism for the win!” John announced, raising his glass.

Greg laughed. “Humans seem to be humans wherever you go.”

“Oh, it’s not just the humans who get into the spirit,” the Commander told them. “I mean, when it comes to selling things, you can’t beat a dwarf. They’ve definitely embraced the tradition. Most people in Ankh-Morpork celebrate the holiday, putting their own touches on it. Chrysophrase, one of the troll community leaders dresses up as the Hogfather every year and hands out shale filled stockings to the kiddies. Of course, I reckon he does it so he has something to hold over the parent’s heads when he needs something in his ‘business dealings’ but the young'uns don’t know that so they still enjoy it.”

“Huh, I keep forgetting there are other...species? Is that the term?” Greg asked.

He nodded. “I did find it strange when I discovered there were only humans here on Twelve B. It’s only fairly recently though that interspecies relations have improved back home. Ankh-Morpork seems to be the frontrunner when it comes to things like that, but mostly because we care more about how much you’ll spend than what you are. Don’t get me wrong - there are tensions, but they gradually seem to be getting better. I think it helps in some small way that the Watch is an equal opportunity employer. When you’re on the job you’re not a dwarf or a werewolf or a gargoyle - you’re a Watchman. That helps when it comes to arresting people. If you’ve committed a crime you’re not a troll or a vampire or a witch - you’re a criminal and one of my men will be taking you in. Race doesn’t come into it at all.”

“I like the way you run your ship,” Greg told him, enjoying the sense of kinship he felt with the Commander. 

Conversation drifted then to other topics and the DI found himself completely relaxed. He’d been nervous about this trip, and overwhelmed with the new knowledge he’d been imparted, but that had faded as he’d connected with these people. Instead he felt a sense of belonging, a warm thrill inside at being part of something so singular. He’d drifted for so long, tangled in an unhappy marriage and living just for the work. It had started to change the day a high street kid barged onto one of his crime scenes and he’d then met the brother who had come to collect him from the station once he’d been arrested. His life had changed irrevocably when he met the Holmes brothers, but it was for the better. And now he’d been embraced by their greater family - a family that was even bigger than expected. He had thought he couldn’t be happier with Mycroft at his side, but he had been wrong. Being part of  _ this _ caused something to shift, to click into place and suddenly he felt complete. He was happier than he’d ever been in his life.

Since the universe was against one Greg Lestrade being happy, it was at the point of this revelation that it all went horribly wrong. The windows exploded inwards, someone screamed, and it all went very bad.

  
  



	8. In Which 'The Battle of the Dining Room' Takes Place

Even when looking back on the evening after the fact, when the adrenaline had worn off and the fight for survival wasn’t in the forefront of his mind, Greg still had trouble piecing together the sequence of events. He could recall certain parts vividly, as if they were painstakingly drawn in oils on a canvas in front of him, and then it would be a rush and blur until another scene would come into startling focus. At the time, his mind had switched off and he had acted entirely on impulse and instinct which meant that mostly he could recall the rushes of emotion that coursed through him.

First came the shock as the tall windows overlooking the lawn exploded inwards, showering the dinner guests with glass. The intruders were not human, but wolves and a chill had raced through Greg’s veins as he instinctively identified them as werewolves. And then he was on his feet, a steak knife in one hand and a bread and butter knife in the other, his mind screaming at him to defend his family.

The door behind him crashed open and Greg, John and Sam all turned to face the latest threat. He saw more furry bodies racing into the room as a naked man held open the door. As soon as the wolves had passed through the doorway, the man snarled and his body began to transform until he too was on all fours, gums drawn back to reveal sharp teeth as he growled.

A wolf leapt at Greg and he lashed out, plunging the steak knife into the animal’s chest over and over while at the same time avoiding the snapping teeth and sharp claws. Blood spurted from the creature and when his arm had grown tired, he shoved it from him and it fell to the ground. He watched in disbelief as it rose to its feet, disregarding its injuries and snarling menacingly.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, dread settling heavy in his gut.

Sam had been fighting off his own attacker and he staggered backwards until he fell against Greg. He was panting hard and his eyes were darting frantically around the room. “They’re almost impossible to kill unless we use silver,” he said.

“We’re so screwed,” the DI muttered, knowing that there wasn’t an ounce of silver anywhere in the room.

Sam grunted in reply, his expression frantic until they fell on his son. Millie had drawn Young Sam against her and the air around her crackled with magic. A wolf stalked towards her and she muttered under her breath before a ball of purple fire flew towards the creature, hitting it in the chest. Knowing his son was as safe as possible, Sam pressed his back up against Greg’s. “Hamstrings and eyes are our best bet. They heal faster than humans but not _that_ fast. We might not be able to kill them, but we can cripple them. It’s our best shot.”

Greg nodded, not wasting breath with a reply. A wolf leapt at him and his sole focus was on trying to inflict as much damage as possible.

Time passed in a blur of fur and teeth and blood. Greg caught a glimpse of Mycroft who had herded his mother into a corner and was defending her with a poker from the fireplace before his attention was pulled away. Another time he saw Havelock stalk a wolf, a fierce expression on his pale face. As well as snarls and growls, the air was alive with the sizzling sound of magic as Christopher and Millie threw out spells to fight and defend.

More time passed and Greg was on his knees, a heavy body crushing him against the ground, fangs an inch from his face. His muscles were screaming in protest but adrenaline urged him on. He shoved as hard as he could, but all it did was shunt the wolf backwards by half a foot. Fear settled cold in his gut as he realised that he was probably going to die. He tried to make peace with that but his mind mutinied, its desire to live not going down without a fight. Teeth snapped closer and closer to his throat and he twisted his head away as far as possible, feeling the hot breath on his skin, hearing the deep growls so close to his ear.

And then suddenly the weight was gone. His head whipped around and he saw Sherlock above him, a bloody carving knife in hand, slashing at the muscles on the creature’s hind legs. The tall genius shoved the animal aside and reached down to offer Greg a hand. He grasped it and pulled himself to his feet, nodding his thanks to the detective. Sherlock turned towards the fray and then stiffened as claws from the injured beast raked across his stomach. He staggered backwards and Greg rushed forwards, slashing and stabbing at the wolf in front of them.

Once he’d managed to further disable the creature, Greg turned back and knelt down next to Sherlock. He was pale and clutched at his stomach, blood gushing over his hands. Greg pressed against the wound, trying to stop the flow of blood whilst simultaneously keeping an eye out for attackers.

He heard Sam yell, a heart wrenching cry of “ _Havelock_!” and the wolves seemed to be retreating, falling away. Greg whipped his head around and saw that several of the wolves had returned to their human forms and had dragged the unconscious Patrician out through the window. Mycroft bellowed and rushed after them, only to be overwhelmed and knocked down by a blow to the head. After a brief moment of debate, another two wolves changed back into human form and dragged off the politician as well. “No!” he cried and scrambled to his feet, only to be blinded by a shocking flash of green light.

He looked around wildly, all traces of the wolves and Mycroft and Havelock gone. There was a groan behind him and he turned around, kneeling back beside Sherlock. “John!” he called as he pressed back against the wound.

The army doctor rushed to them and crouched down, his face calm and his hands steady as he evaluated the wounds. “I’ve got a medical bag in our room. I need it, now.”

“I’ll get it,” William said and hurried from the room.

Now that he knew Sherlock was in good hands, Greg stood and crossed to the window where he’d last seen his partner, climbing through the empty frame and stumbling onto the lawn. “Where did they go?” he demanded of Christopher and Sam, who were both standing at the point of disappearance.

“Looks like they escaped back to their own world via magic,” the nine-lifer said, crouching down and sniffing at a powdery residue that was left behind.

“Which world is that?”

“They were Discworld werewolves,” Sam told them. “I’d recognise them anywhere.”

“What were they doing here? Why have they taken Mycroft and Havelock?”

“I have my suspicions, but I’m going to find out.” The Commander turned to Christopher. “I need to get home, can you arrange that?”

He nodded.

“Can you and Millie watch over Young Sam?”

“Of course.”

“I’m going with you,” Greg told Sam.

Warm brown eyes regarded him. “I wouldn’t have expected otherwise.”

He nodded and they headed back inside to commence planning.

oOoOo

“I’m coming as well,” Sherlock declared when Greg told him the news. He tried to get up from his position on the couch but gasped in pain.

John lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and pressed him back down. “No, you’re not going anywhere.”

“John, they’ve got my _brother_! I will not rest until we have him back.”

“As nice as it is to see that you do actually care for him, John’s right. You’re in no state to come with us, Sherlock. I’m sorry.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, as indignant as he could get whilst injured.

Greg rolled his eyes fondly. “Come off it, Sherlock. You gripe and sneer and tease Mycroft relentlessly. Even _he’s_ not sure if you hate him or not.”

“Gah! You’re all so _stupid!_ How can you bear it in your tiny little minds?”

“Oi,” John chastised. “Enough of that.”

“No, John, because this time it’s true. You’re all dumber than I thought possible if you don’t know that I love my brother. Yes he’s annoying, and smug, and apparently _not_ the smart one if he can’t even see that I care about him, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t do anything for him. Those bastards who took him need to pay, Greg.” His pale face was fierce. “ _Make sure you get him back._ ”

The DI gave his shoulder a squeeze. “We will, Sherlock. We will.”

Sam and Christopher came into the room then, their faces grave. “We’re ready to go,” Sam said, handing Greg his bag that he’d picked up from his room.

“Once I’ve sent you, I’ll head home and start investigating what they used to make the trip here,” Christopher told them. “Once I know for sure and have some idea of what we’re up against on the magic front, I’ll follow after and join you.”

“Carrot will know where we’ve gone so make the Watch your first stop.”

The enchanter nodded. “Alright, are you both ready?”

They nodded and John clapped Greg on the back. “Good luck. Get our boys back.”

The three men headed into the large room at the front of the manor that had the pentagram painted on the stone floor. Greg noticed it was empty. “Young Sam?” he asked.

“With Millie and Maggie,” the Commander replied, a tad gruffly. “I said goodbye earlier. Thought it would be easier on him if he was distracted when we left.”

They moved to the centre of the star and Greg couldn’t help the way his stomach flipped nervously. Seeing magic performed was one thing; having magic performed on you was an entirely different matter. Christopher stood tall and imposing, enveloped in his role as Chrestomanci, and wasted no time in beginning his incantation. Green flames whipped up around them but there was no heat in the centre where they stood. Soon they couldn’t see the room beyond for the flames, and Christopher’s voice rose to a crescendo, before beginning to get quieter and quieter. The flames dropped suddenly and they were no longer in the room at the Holmes manor.

Greg looked around and saw they were in the middle of a room filled with bookcases, and a glass dome above allowed moonlight to filter through. A movement to one side drew his attention and he saw a large, orange figure moving towards them.

“Ook?” it said.


	9. In Which Greg Arrives in the Discworld

“Erm, hello,” Greg said, waving nervously at the large orangutan.

“Ook?”

“Greg, this is the Librarian,” Sam introduced. “Things have gone a little pear shaped,” he explained to the orange primate. “We need to see Ridcully. Is he about?”

“Ook.” The Librarian nodded and headed towards the door, leaving them alone.

“Why are we in a library?” Greg asked, looking about curiously.

“Apparently the residual magic from L-Space makes this the ideal location to facilitate travel between worlds,” the Commander explained haltingly, a frown creasing his brow as he tried to remember the explanation given to him.

“I see,” the DI replied, more for want of something to say than any actual understanding. The intricacies of magic were still rather foreign to him at the moment.

“It won’t take me long to brief the Archchancellor and then we’ll head for the Watchhouse. I’ll need to speak to one of my captains before we can head off.”

“You’re sure of who is responsible?”

“I have a pretty good idea, yes, although they would have needed help.”

“I’m guessing there’s a history there?”

Sam nodded as he paced. “Back before Sybil died Havelock thought it would be funny to send me off on a diplomatic mission to a place called Uberwald. There were tensions with one of the werewolf clans there and long story short, I killed the son of one of the pack leaders in self defence. I have a suspicion that this is some form of retaliation for that.”

“Wasn’t that quite a few years ago?”

“Mmm, almost seven years ago now. I’ll need to speak to Angua to find out some details to confirm my theory though.”

“Angua?”

“Yeah, she’s one of my Captains. It was her brother who died.”

“Um…” Greg was speechless. “And she’s okay with that?”

“Her brother was a murderous psychopath and killed one of her oldest friends. She didn’t shed many tears over his death.”

“Right.” Before he could ask anything else, the Librarian returned, accompanied by a tall, bearded man.

“Vimes!” the newcomer bellowed. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

“Someone has been helping Discworld werewolves cross between worlds. We were attacked on Twelve B and they’ve taken Havelock and Mycroft.”

“They managed to overpower Vetinari?”

Sam nodded. “And Mycroft isn’t exactly a pushover either. He’s had similar training. What I need to know is who the heck has been helping them? I didn’t think the related worlds were common knowledge, and I doubt there would be many wizards who could pull off such a spell.”

Ridcully’s eyes narrowed. “No, there wouldn’t be. I think we have a mole in the University.”

The Librarian growled low in his chest, startling Greg. “My thoughts exactly,” Sam told them, though if he was agreeing with the suspicions of a mole or the orangutan’s sentiments, the DI couldn’t be sure. 

“I’ll look into it as a priority,” The Archchancellor assured them. “I’ll have young Mister Stibbons run some algorithms on Hex to give us an idea of any magical anomalies occurring nearby in the past day.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll most likely be heading towards Uberwald so I’ll stop at the major clacks towers along the way to check for messages if you want to send them along.”

“Will do.” He gave what Greg assumed was meant to be a reassuring smile but it came across more as a manic grin. “You’ll get him back, Vimes. I know you will.”

“Oh, that I will. I won’t bloody stop till I find him. Thanks, Mustrum.”

Sam led Greg out of the university and the Roundworlder got his first proper look at the Discworld. He wasn’t entirely sure of what to expect, but this...wasn’t it. Surely the place should  _ feel _ different, shouldn’t it? The centre of gravity wouldn’t be the same as Earth, would it? It shouldn’t just remind him of a somewhat quirky Victorian London! The more he looked, the more he noticed the subtle - and not so subtle - differences. They passed more wizards, identifiable by their pointy hats; that...person? over there must surely be a troll, unless they had some horribly disfiguring disease that made them look like a lichen covered rock; that gargoyle shaped statue actually just moved; and he saw a thug attempt to rob a fancily dressed man only to stop when he was shown what looked to be a receipt. 

Starting to feel a little overwhelmed, Greg focussed his attention on Sam. Most people they passed seemed to recognise him, with most giving a respectful nod or wave, and some turning and fleeing in terror. The scowl on his face may have had something to do with that, but mostly it had to be his towering reputation. He set a hard pace and they were making their way very rapidly through the city. Greg couldn’t even imagine what he was going through. Sure, Mycroft had been taken as well, but to have Havelock captured by what seemed to be vengeful werewolves so soon after losing his wife was a low blow by the universe in his opinion.

They soon arrived at what must be the Watchhouse. Sam led him inside and there was a mad scramble by the officers inside when they saw that their boss had arrived unexpectedly early. The Commander ignored them in favour of stopping by the front desk where a dwarf with an intricately braided beard was manning the counter.

“Cheery, can you please send for Angua and tell her I need to see her right away?”

“Of course, sir.” The dwarf didn't even blink twice at the boss’s sudden reappearance, just checked a calendar on the wall that seemed to have the current rota written up on it. 

Sam started to lead Greg away but stopped and turned back to the dwarf, pulling something from his pocket. “Oh, I almost forgot - Millie asked me to give these to you.” He handed over two pink hair ties that had small bows attached.

“That’s so sweet!” Cheery exclaimed, a blush colouring the skin that could be seen above the facial hair. “Next time you see her, please pass on my thanks.” 

Sam gave her a small smile and gestured for Greg to follow him up the stairs. A memory of a snippet of overheard conversation came back to him. “So, uh, that was a girl dwarf?” he asked quietly.

The Commander’s expression grew amused. “It can be hard to tell at times, but the women seem to be growing bolder at announcing to the world their gender.”

“I see.”

“Dwarfs are a funny lot. Just wait till you meet Carrot. He’s my second in command and will be in my office. You’d never pick him as a dwarf.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Just wait and see.”

Humouring him, Greg stayed quiet as they made their way to the top of the stairs and down a hallway. Sam opened the door to what was apparently his office and nodded to the person behind the desk. “Carrot.”

“Sir! You’re back!” 

The tallest dwarf Greg had ever seen jumped up from behind the desk.

 


	10. In Which Sam Gets Upset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the entire three of you who are reading this, I do hope I'm doing all three fandoms justice :)

Well over six feet of solid muscle with flaming red hair, Captain Carrot fired off a perfect salute. “I wasn’t expecting you back for several days at least.” His tone was slightly disapproving, almost as if Sam constantly fought against even the idea of going on a holiday. Knowing him even for such a brief period of time, Greg knew that this was most likely the case.

“Something’s come up,” Sam said ominously.

“It usually does.”

“Is Sybil channeling you from beyond the grave, Carrot? Because you sound suspiciously like my wife.”

The young man frowned. “She always said you worked too much, sir. I can’t help it if I’m continuing her legacy.”

Sam slumped into the chair in front of his desk, exhaustion washing over him. “Yes, well, it can’t be helped this time. Havelock’s been taken and I need to get him back.”

“I see.” The dwarf took the news calmly, but Greg could see he was already considering their options. “What do you know?”

“Know? Not much, just that we were attacked on Twelve B and he and Mycroft were kidnapped - oh, sorry, this is Greg by the way, Mycroft’s partner. Greg, this is Carrot.” The two men nodded at each other. “What I suspect is lots. But I need to talk with Angua first so I can line up those suspicions and give them a good eyeballing. I need to make sure I’m not being cleverly deceived by someone much smarter. The last thing I need is to run off in one direction only to have Havelock and Mycroft being taken in the other.”

“Makes sense. I’ll go get you some tea while we wait for Angua.”

“So....a dwarf, hey?” the DI said with a wry smile after Carrot had left the room.

“Technically, yes. He was found in the woods by a dwarf couple and they raised him as their own. Being a dwarf is considered a matter of culture, not genetics and so as long as you uphold certain dwarfish traditions and rituals, you’re considered a dwarf. Which is why it came as such a shock to Carrot that he was biologically a human.”

“So the um...height difference didn’t give it away?”

“Let’s just say that  our Carrot is a very...innocent? sort. He never questioned the differences between himself and others because he doesn’t really see those differences in others. He’s very accepting of everyone and treats everyone equally.”

“Sounds like a good bloke.”

“Oh, he is. Can drive me batty at times, but one of the best officers I have.”

Said officer returned then, carrying a tray with a teapot and four mugs on it. “Angua’s just gotten back, sir but she’s brushing her teeth. She chased down some thugs in the Shades and they don’t care much for personal hygiene. She has a horrible taste in her mouth.”

“She bit them?” Greg asked, stunned. “Won’t that mean they turn into a werewolf?”

“Oh, no, only at the fullmoon. Besides, she got more trouser leg than skin. Still tastes horrible though.”

“Ah, right, I see.”

“Some people can be awfully inconsiderate,” Carrot said, seemingly sincerely, as if he honestly believed that criminals should wash before being arrested by a werewolf.

“Don’t I know it.”

The door opened and a pretty blonde woman came in. She was dressed in what Greg recognised as the Watch uniform, and had a no-nonsense look about her. He tried not to stare but couldn’t help looking for wolfish characteristics.

“Sir,” she greeted the Commander.

“Angua,” Sam replied with a nod. “I’ll cut to the chase - werewolves attacked us and have taken off with Havelock and Mycroft. I’m inclined to believe that this is some sort of revenge for that business all those years ago in Uberwald. What’s the news coming out of there right now?”

“I’m not much in contact with the family, sir,” she said, delicately sidestepping the question.

“I don’t expect you to be writing home every week, but I know you get regular updates from someone in the area.”

“What makes you think that?” she asked defensively.

“Because it’s my job to know these things, Captain. Now stop pussyfooting about and tell me what you know.”

Her mouth set into a grim line. “There are other werewolves on the Disc, sir. I don’t know why you automatically assume it’s something to do with my family!”

Sam was on his feet in the blink of an eye and had her pinned against the wall by her throat before anyone could move. “They have Havelock! The one good thing to happen to me since Sybil died and now they’ve taken him!” His eyes were wild and spittle was flying from his mouth as he yelled. “The only wolves I know who have a bone to pick with me are your pack. Now I know that you’re keeping something from me and you need to damn well tell me what it is so I can get back the man that I love, because if something happens to him I am holding you personally responsible!”

“Sir,” Carrot warned in a low voice.

“Keep out of this!” Sam thundered.

“ _Sir!_ ” The dwarf had moved in and had pulled the Commander off of Angua. He grabbed Sam’s arm and held it up in front of his face. “You need to calm down.”

Greg noticed a funny shaped scar on Sam’s arm - it looked like a floating eyeball with a curly tail. It seemed to be almost glowing from within and all the colour drained from Sam’s face as he looked at it. He dropped his arm and hurriedly stepped away from Angua, taking a moment to gain control of his anger. After a moment he turned back to the werewolf, his eyes filled with loss. “ _Please_ ,” he pleaded.

She stepped away from the wall, rubbing at her throat where he’d gripped her. “I’m not withholding information to be spiteful, sir. I just really don’t know much. My father hasn’t been well and it sounds like mother has had him _kennelled_. As mad as he was going, he still held some control over her and the pack and now it seems that it’s every wolf for himself. It’s been very hard to get any reliable information about the situation.”

“As much as I hate to ask this of you, do you personally believe that your mother could have something to do with this?”

“Without a doubt, sir. Let me send a clacks and ask some questions but I wouldn’t put it past her at all. She was distraught after my brother’s death and my father was the one who kept her from doing something stupid. If he’s no longer around to keep a lea...le…” - she shuddered, and pushed through - “a _leash_ on her, then this is definitely something I could see her engineering. I’m sure I can have some answers by tonight.”

“Okay, thank you.” He sank back down into the chair and rubbed at his face.

“Maybe you should head home for a bit and try and get some rest?” Carrot suggested. “I can’t imagine you’ll get much once you’re on the hunt.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” he conceded. “Greg and I’ll be at the house. Can you send a runner as soon as you hear anything?”

“I’ll come personally, sir,” Angua told him.

Sam was quiet as he led Greg back through the Watchhouse but Greg couldn’t blame him. He himself was starting to slip deeper and deeper into a black pit of despair the longer Mycroft was missing. As much as he tried to remain optimistic, maybe he had to start considering the fact that this might not end well.


	11. In Which Greg is Drooled on by a Dragon

Greg tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable in the soft bed. His mind wouldn’t stop whirring and worst case scenarios flickered through his mind’s eye. Mycroft could be hurt or injured, the hostage takers could be torturing him, or they might decide to kill him. Hell, they might even decide to turn him. Greg didn’t know what would be worse. He remembered what captain Carrot said about that only being possible during the full moon and made a mental note to ask Sam when that was here on the Disc. Hopefully they would have enough time to mount a rescue mission before then.

He gave up trying to sleep after an hour and got up. He wandered the halls of the large house, looking at various portraits of severe looking men holding lethal looking weapons, and equally severe women, most with small dragons in their laps. He made his way downstairs towards the kitchen where they had entered the house and found Sam sitting at the table.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” the Commander asked, looking tired and drawn.

He shook his head. “Nope. Too bloody worried.”

Sam grunted and pushed over a pot of tea and a spare mug. “I can brew coffee if you prefer.”

“Tea’s good for now. Might need coffee later though.” He poured the tea and added milk and sugar.

They drank their tea in silence, both too exhausted for small talk. Greg wondered how things were going back home and how Sherlock was. The gash had looked nasty and God only knew what kind of infections one could get from a werewolf’s claw. He hoped that someone had let Anthea know that Mycroft was missing, otherwise the over-protective PA would worry herself sick when he failed to show up to work. Chrestomanci would probably deal with that since he had contacts with the government, but Greg didn’t even know if Anthea was privy to the information about other worlds or not. He was glad it wasn’t himself who would be having that conversation.

He’d left a message for his own bosses that he’d need his leave extended, and was grateful that they wouldn’t be able to get hold of him. He couldn’t imagine their reaction would be a good one to unexpected leave over the festive season - not that he really cared though. Mycroft was his priority and if he was disciplined over the situation he was more than happy to tell them where they could shove it. He loved his job but for so long he had put it first and his family second but not anymore. He was doing it right this time round.

Something wet and warm touched the bare foot and Greg almost jumped off the chair. He looked down to see an elderly swamp dragon snuffling at his legs. “Erm, hello there.”

Sam twisted in his chair to see what had startled his guest. “Oh, that’s Dribble,” he said. “There’s some charcoal in a dish over on the bench if you want to give him a treat.”

“Um, sure.” Greg stood and fetched a small lump of charcoal and held it out to the dragon. Dribble shuffled over enthusiastically, or as enthusiastically as he could given he looked to be very, very old. He delicately took the lump from Greg and crunched down, swallowing all of it but a few crumbs that were showered over the floor. The DI hesitated a fraction of a second and then bent down to pat the dragon on the head. Dribble made a low, rumbly noise and his eyes closed in bliss at the scratches. “Almost like a dog,” he mused.

“Dogs don’t tend to explode randomly though,” Sam mentioned.

Greg froze. “Explode?”

“They have very delicate digestive systems and every now and then gases build up and they just kind of -” he made a noise to indicate a small detonation. “Most of them don’t live to be anywhere near as old as this one. Dribble seems to be some sort of anomaly.”

“I see.” Taking his chances, he reached back down and continued scratching. The dragon leaned further and further against him until he was almost pushing Greg onto the floor. He was much heavier than he looked.

“Are you hungry?” Sam asked. “I can whip something up if you like. Normally Willikins does the cooking but I gave him the week off while we were away so it’ll just be something basic.”

“Sounds like my style of cooking. If you’re eating too then I’ll have something.”

He disappeared into a larder and came out with a lump of bacon, some eggs, and a few tomatoes. Greg was relieved that it all looked to be the same sort of food they got back home. As much as he was adventurous and would try new things, he didn’t think he’d be able to handle eating insects or something equally as odd. “I don’t have any bread sorry, but this should tide us over for a bit.”

The kitchen soon filled with the aroma of the fryup and Greg’s stomach gave a rumble in appreciation. Christmas lunch was longer ago than he thought. “So if your suspicions are correct and it’s this pack of wolves you’ve had dealings with in the past, what’s the plan?”

“I’ll go and see Ridcully for some help with transport. When I had to get to Koom Valley quickly, he helped out with a spell to increase the speed of the carriages. It’s a bit harrowing but it’ll cut down the time of the trip and maybe we can gain some back on the kidnappers. We’ll take Angua with us to help with tracking and I’m also thinking of bringing Sally, my vampire officer. As much as I dislike vampires, and it might be problematic since werewolves like them even less, having someone of the undead variety may be a big help to us. Plus I think I’ll bring Detritus along. Not even the sharpest of teeth seem to bother a troll his size.”

“Sounds like an interesting mix of company.”

Sam started flipping the eggs. “You’ve just summed up the Watch in general. Didn’t used to be that way - started off just a handful of us, well we used to be the Nightwatch back then. Havelock merged them together and put me in charge and since then it’s evolved into what it is today.”

“It’s weird. Back home we still have so much trouble with racism yet here you have different species co-existing.”

“Racism still exists here, it’s just speciesism is louder and nastier so it tends to dwarf it - pardon the pun. People are arseholes wherever you go, be it your world or mine or one of the others.”

“I suppose.” It was a depressing thought, but at the same time made this strange world feel a tad more familiar.

Sam plated the food and they sat, digging in immediately. It was one of the best fry ups the DI could ever remember eating and he recalled his grandmother’s old saying _Hunger is the best sauce_. Dribble had followed him over to the table and leaned against Greg’s leg, living up to his name if the damp patch on his trousers was any indication. He feverently hoped that dragon drool wasn’t caustic. He slipped him small bits of bacon every now and then, evoking the same rumbling noises as the scritching did. It appeared to be the dragon equivalent of a cat’s purr.

They were just finishing their meal when there was a banging on the door. Sam got up to open it, revealing a serious looking Captain Angua.

“That was quick,” Sam commented, standing aside to let her in.

“Sorry if I woke you,” she apologised, removing her helmet and running a hand through her blonde locks.

“Neither of us could sleep, so it’s all good. You have news?”

She nodded. “I didn’t even get to send a clacks. When I got to the office they told me I had an urgent message waiting for me. It was from one of my cousins back home who was concerned over some of the things going down. It looks like you were right, sir.” She slumped down into one of the kitchen chairs and rubbed at her face. “My mother left on a trip last week and took with her several of the more violent pack members with her. My cousin said it looked like she was on a mission.”

 


	12. In Which Plans are Made and Bacon is Consumed

“Okay, at least we have somewhere to start,” Sam said, relief on his face. “If I’d been wrong, I don’t quite know what we’d have done.”

“I really am so sorry, sir,” Angua said dejectedly.

“Not your fault, Captain. There was a reason you left Uberwald and you’re to be commended on leaving behind that life.”

“Still, I should have _known_.”

“So,” Greg asked, "how long will it take them to get there? You said something about getting some magical help with transport? Will we catch them?”

Sam pursed his lips as he thought. “Let me get a map,” he said, then disappeared from the kitchen.

“So, how are you liking the Disc so far?” the werewolf asked, giving him a wry smile.

He laughed. “I do wish it was under better circumstances but it’s interesting, that’s for sure.”

“It’s not _all_ doom, gloom, and crime,” she assured him. “Well, here in Ankh-Morpork it is, but there are some very lovely places to visit on the Counterweight Continent.”

“I’m sure there are. It’s different to home, so even seeing just a little makes it worth a visit. Maybe once we’ve gotten our fellas back, I’ll have some time to explore with Mycroft.”

Sam returned, carrying a large, rolled up map. He cleared off the table and unrolled it, weighing down the corners with coffee cups and salt and pepper shakers. “Right, so it’s roughly 1600 miles to Uberwald. Angua, how will they travel if they’re transporting hostages?”

“I doubt they’d use a coach since we don’t feel all that comfortable travelling for long periods of time in them, so I would guess they’ll fashion sleds and pull them along.”

“Wouldn’t they have more luck containing them if they were in a coach?” Greg asked. “Let’s face it - Havelock and Mycroft aren’t exactly pushovers. They’d have trouble for sure keeping them on a sled.”

“You’re forgetting that they have a wizard with them,” the Commander pointed out. “They’ll have no troubles subduing them.”

“Oh.” That thought made the DI more than a little disturbed.

“Right, so they won’t have to stick to the main roads and can cut corners.” He peered at the map, trying to discern the route they’d take. “That will save them quite a bit of time.”

“Here, here, and most likely here,” Angua said, pointing at three locations, “are places where they will have to take the roads. Wolves would be able to pass over that terrain with no problems, but they’d never get a sled over it. They’ll have to intersect the road at those points.”

Sam rubbed at his chin. “True. Alright, well, considering it’ll take at least overnight for Ridcully to rig up the same contraption we used before, I don’t think we’d catch them at the first, or even the second points.” He stabbed his finger on the third location. “I think our best bet will be to head straight for here and then set up an ambush.”

Angua nodded. “That could work. Who are you thinking of taking with you?”

“You, of course, Detritus and maybe even Bluejohn - they’re the trolls,” he explained to Greg. “And as much as you won’t like it - Sally.”

The noise the captain made was a very canine like growl. She scowled but nodded curtly. “It makes sense. They won’t be able to differentiate between the smell of the surrounds and the smell of the trolls until the boys are on them, and Sally can stay in the air so they won’t scent her.”

“Do you think anyone else would be useful? And no, Carrot will need to remain behind.”

“Buggy would be a help when it came to scouting for them,” she suggested. “Otherwise there’s not really anyone else who would be of great benefit.”

Sam nodded. “Alright then, that’s the plan. Head back to the Watch House and make the arrangements with those officers. We’ll go and see Ridcully about his assistance. We’ll meet back here at dawn tomorrow morning.”

“On it, sir.” She stood and exited without ceremony.

“Right,” Sam said, rolling up the map. “Let’s go and see a wizard about a spell.”

oOoOo

The archchancellor was more than happy to assist them, stating “It’s nice to do some proper magic for a change.” He rubbed his hands together and started barking orders, energised by the request.

Once they had ascertained that the carriage would be ready by the following morning, Sam offered to show Greg a little more of the city. “It’s not like we have much else to do but wait.”

The Roundworlder was more than happy with this suggestion, preferring to keep busy than to dwell on what might be happening to the man he loved. Feeling useless was not something that he was accustomed to, but until they had caught up with the perpetrators, there was little he could actually do.

First Sam took him to the Patrician’s Palace, showing him the Oblong Office and where Havelock spent the majority of his time. He met a young clerk by the name of Drumknott who had pounced on Sam the minute they’d walked in the door, demanding information. He appeared to be one of those quiet, introverted sorts who turned into an entirely different beast when upset. He may have been wringing his hands with worry, but he was fierce when demanding what was being done to find the Patrician.

“Calm down, Drumknott. Surely you must know that I’m doing everything I can to get him back.”

“It’s just Lord Rust has gotten wind of it and he’s circling like a vulture! We simply can’t have him assuming control - we simply can’t!”

Sam lay a hand on his shoulder and led him over to a chair. “Call a meeting of the guild leaders tonight. Havelock had left them in charge while he was away anyway, so simply inform the committee that the time frame has been extended. They don’t want old Rust taking over anymore than you do.”

The young man took deep, calming breaths and finally nodded. “Okay, yes, that makes sense.”

“If you have any troubles, call for Carrot. He’ll be able to pull them into line. But I’m confident that we’ll have the Patrician back within the week.”

“Thank you, Commander. And good luck.”

“You too, Drumknott.”

They left the palace and wandered the streets, Sam pointing out places of interest as they went. It was clear that he was walking a patrol route, and that the sheer routine of it was helping to calm his mind, making it easier to think and to plan. Most of the landmarks he mentioned were places he’d visited for work.

“That’s where Mrs Higgins went troppo and killed her husband - we were still finding bits of him for weeks afterwards.”

“We chased a gang of bank robbers down that laneway, but they didn’t know that Detritus was waiting for them at the end. One sweep of his arms and all four of them were out cold in an instant.”

“Funny incident with a few clowns of the Fool’s Guild in that building. I’ll never look at one of those fake flowers that squirt water the same way again.”

“We’re entering The Shades now, which is dodgy in its own right but just down there is where Fred, Nobby, Carrot, and I almost got incinerated by a dragon. Not one of the little ones, but a proper big bugger.”

They ended up back near the main Watch House and Sam led him to a small, hole-in-the-wall kind of diner. They both got BLT’s for supper, but Greg noted that to simplify things, the Commander’s could have just been called a bacon sandwich. After their fryup this morning, he concluded that the way to make Sam Vimes a happy man was to ply him with fried pig. Though if he was honest, that would make him pretty happy too. Once they’d eaten and then dropped by the Watch House to check Angua had arranged everything on her end, they decided to call it a night. They headed back to Sator Square and Greg found his eyes drooping closed almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to, but he soon drifted into a sound sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story takes place well before Raising Steam so that's why we're not hurtling across the Disc in a train, but I have discovered a wonderfully annoying fact about Sir Terry. He never really specified distances, and the Mappe is so out of whack it's not funny. Some nerdier nerds than I have theorised that one inch on the Mappe is approximately 400 miles (if we agree the Disc is 10,000 miles across). Now Bonk isn't on the Mappe so I've had to guestimate and it appears it's roughly 1600 miles from AM. By the time I got to the part where I would have to work out the average speed of a horse, and also of a wolf, and then how long it would take them, my head almost exploded and so I've left it rather vague. If this bothers you, please fell free to do the calculations and get back to me! Otherwise, enjoy!


	13. In Which Cabbages Explode Via Magical Transportation

Fields flashed by at a sedate pace and Greg breathed in, noting the distinct scent of cabbage in the air. It was rather pleasant - much more pleasant than the smell of cooking cabbages anyway, and he found himself relaxing atop the carriage. He had chosen to sit up top with the troll, Bluejohn, and Angua so he could see a little of the countryside while they travelled. Detritus was driving the coach, and Sam was inside with Sally (the vampire needing to stay out of the sun), with Buggy following them in the sky atop a tame falcon.

The coach had looked quite normal to Greg, although he couldn’t be sure as he could honestly say that he’d never actually seen a proper coach before. Ornamental ones that were pulled by Clydesdales at fairs, and a fair few on television and film, but not a honest-to-God mode-of-transport carriage. Sam assured him that the wizards had spelled both the horses and the coach, and once they were far enough away from civilisation, they would hit thirteen miles an hour and the spell would activate. He looked a little pale, and Greg had had sudden doubts about the process. How bad must it have been if it made Sam look like he’d lose his lunch? The Commander had just sighed and said, “What I wouldn’t give for a fast car about now.” Greg had laughed, wishing for the same, but knowing Christopher would have had a conniption if they had attempted to bring such technology to a different world.

For now he relaxed back in the seat and closed his eyes, feeling the faint warmth of the sun on his face. A pang of guilt went through him for enjoying the moment, knowing that neither Mycroft or Havelock would likely be comfortable at the moment. He’d spoken to Ridcully who had told him that the wizard assisting the werewolves would most likely have used a simple sleeping spell on the men, but it still did little to assuage his guilt. He just wanted this whole ordeal to be over, to have his partner back, for the worry to cease.

After about half an hour he heard Sam call to Detritus and they pulled over to the side of the road. The hatch opened and the Commander’s head poked through. “We’re far enough away now that it should be safe to activate the spell, so everyone should take the chance now to stretch your legs, have a smoke, and maybe take a piss. Once we get going you might find your bladder emptying by its own accord.”

“Dis is true,” Detritus told them solemnly. “I dun’ even need ta piss an’ I felt it tricklin’ down ma leg.”

There was a mad scramble to get down and they all disappeared into the cabbage fields, heading in different directions. Greg finished and came back, accepting a smoke from Sam and lighting up. He told himself that there was no need to inform Mycroft of it and that he’d quit again after this business was over. Desperate times and all that stuff. “How you holding up?” he asked Sam quietly.

The man shrugged. “If I don’t think about it and just focus on the next step, I’m alright. When I _do_ start thinking about it, I start to get very angry and that scares me.”

“That have anything to do with that?” he asked, nodding towards the mark on his wrist.

Sam’s eyes darkened but he gave a short nod. “Long story, but yes. Just gotta keep a handle on myself.”

“Well, if it helps you be calm and collected, I can be the one of us who loses his shit when we catch these buggers.”

That caused a hint of a smile to grace his lips. “I guess it depends on what state we find our blokes in. If they’ve hurt them...well, I reckon I’ll be losing my shit right alongside you, consequences be damned.”

The others were returning so they fell quiet, Greg recognising that Sam needed to maintain a certain reputation amongst his people. It was something that he understood all too well - as hard as he was affected by something, he was the boss and needed to be the one who held it all together. It didn’t matter if it was something that affected him personally (like the numerous times that Sherlock got himself into trouble), or when it was just the dregs of humanity demonstrating how horrible they could be (most cases involving kids), he was the one who had to keep the calm facade, make decisions, rally the troops. It didn’t matter if he wanted to yell, scream, cry, or vomit, he had to keep it on the inside, hide it from everyone.

They piled back into the coaches and Sam joined them on top. Buggy flew his falcon inside the carriage as they didn’t want to risk him not being able to keep up, and the bird happily settled on Sally’s shoulder. She looked surprised, but gave it a pat on the head and leaned back in the seat. “Okay, Detritus, let ‘em loose,” Sam instructed.

The horses took off, gaining speed and if Greg hadn’t been watching for anything unusual, he would have missed it. There was an almost imperceptible lurch and a momentary feeling of weightlessness, and then the fields were rushing past in a blur. Up ahead a ghostly horse seemed to appear in front of the real animals, pulling them onwards. He noticed Sam lean over and look down and he did the same, noticing that although the wheels were turning, they weren’t touching the ground. Feeling a wave of vertigo wash over him, he pulled his head back and tried not to think about it.

They were soon travelling at over sixty miles an hour, and although the Roundworlder was used to such speeds, he wasn’t quite used to this mode of transport. The Commander instructed Detritus to get them off the road itself and travel over the fields, which left Greg confused until he saw cabbages and cauliflowers were exploding into the air as they passed. He paled as he thought about what would happen if they drove past something made of flesh and blood, and quickly pushed the thought aside. He wished feverently that they were inside a car or truck, constructed out of steel, subjected to numerous safety tests, and equipped with seatbelts. He would never complain about the motorway again.

They stopped several times that day, for lunch and rest breaks, and after eight hours they stopped for the night at an inn. They could have continued but they were all a little frazzled by the journey. They would easily make the point they had decided to lie in wait for the werewolves by tomorrow midday, and it was likely they’d have at least a day’s wait until their quarry arrived.

They dined together in the communal dining hall, Greg answering numerous questions about what his home was like. Due to the magical nature of the Disc, another dimension wasn’t unheard of so there was no need to hide the fact from the general populace. He was halfway through trying to explain the internet when Sam stood and announced that he was going to bed. The inn was only small and due to the size of their party, they had needed to share rooms. The DI and the Commander were bunking in together and because he was exhausted, but also didn’t want to wake Sam later, Greg excused himself as well. He promised the others he would continue his explanation in the morning, and they smiled and bade him goodnight.

It was a long time before Greg fell asleep, and the unnatural stillness coming from the bed across the room told him that sleep was evading Sam as well. He turned onto his side and sighed into the darkness. “Just think - this time tomorrow we might get to see Mycroft and Havelock again,” he said quietly.

There was an answering sigh from across the room. “We can only hope. Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night, Sam.”

  



	14. In Which Sam Reveals Their Secret Weapon

Breakfast was a subdued affair, with no one in the party seeming to have gotten much sleep the night before. Even Detritus, who seemed to Greg to be ever cheerful, was absently toying with the shale flakes he was having for breakfast, his eyes distant. The only one who didn’t seem sullen and withdrawn was Angua; the werewolf was oozing nervous energy, and she sat on the very edge of her chair, looking ready to fight or flee at any moment.

Sam poured more coffee for himself, and seeing Greg’s empty cup, filled it as well. It was a thick, almost syrupy brew, from a place called Klatch - which funnily enough was the sound Greg made as he tried to swallow the concoction down. He thumped at his chest, and fought to get his breath back. The upside was he was suddenly feeling more awake.

Sometime before the light of the sun had crawled slowly across the Disc (he had watched it in amazement the first morning he’d been here, wondering how physics could differ so much from world to world), a disquieting thought had occurred to Greg. It seemed to be a rather glaring omission on Sam’s part, but considering how well he’d organised them so far led Greg to believe that he was missing some key facts. He debated with himself as to whether or not he should raise the matter, not wanting Sam to think that he was doubting his leadership. Eventually he decided that he’d rather take that risk, than the even bigger one of walking into a situation blind.

“I’ve been wondering,” he started, hoping to sound casual.

“Yes?” the Commander asked, draining the last of his coffee and pushing back his almost untouched plate of breakfast.

“The werewolves we’re chasing...they have a wizard with them.”

Sam’s face darkened. “I’m not sure where they found one who would willingly breach their code like this, but somehow they found one, yes.”

“Well, it’s just that we...don’t.” He paused for a moment, then carried on. “I’m assuming someone like you or I wouldn’t stand a chance against a wizard if they were planning on doing us some serious harm.”

“You’re wondering how we’re going to counteract that?”

He nodded. “Well, yeah.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam assured him. “I have a plan.”

Feeling relieved, and a little guilty for even doubting him, Greg rubbed at the back of his neck. “I was hoping you would. Care to share?”

“I’m going to hit them with our secret weapon.”

“We have a secret weapon?”

Sam grinned, and it was viscous. “Of course we do. And you’ve already met him.”

The DI’s brows drew together as he pondered who it could possibly be. None of the people in their little group seemed to fit the bill, but he didn’t know everything about them. Perhaps underneath the lichen, Bluejohn was wearing a pointy hat? Could he secretly be a bad arse wizard in disguise? Erm...no, that didn't seem likely. “Nope, you’ve lost me. I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

That caused the man to laugh. “Christopher of course.”

“Christopher? But he’s a whole world away!” he protested. “How the heck could he be of any help to us here? He won’t have any idea where we even are now since the last he knew, we were in Ankh Morpork.”

Sam shook his head. “It won’t be a problem. There’s a way of summoning him to wherever you need him. The instant you say the words, he just kind of...appears. I think it was after his second visit to the Disc, he wanted to conduct some experiments. He wasn’t sure if he could be summoned here, but since he had found us via The World’s Edge, he was fairly certain that he could be. He explained to Havelock what to do, and we set about trying it out. We couldn’t set an exact time to do it, since time is different on each world, but he knew to be ready at an approximate hour. Havelock followed the instructions and bam, there he was, standing in the Oblong Office, still holding the cup of tea he’d been drinking at the time.”

“So, what? He gets no warning at all? Someone summons him and he has to drop everything and leave?”

“From what I understand, yes.”

“So, even if he’s, you know, on the loo...or in the middle of something with Millie?”

Sam grinned. “Asking the important questions - that’s what I like about you, Greg. He’s explained that it’s led to several rather awkward moments over his career.”

“I can imagine,” he agreed, thinking it wouldn’t have _just_ been when he arrived at wherever he’d been called to, but also when he got home. He couldn’t see Millie being too happy to be almost there, only to have her husband disappear into thin air.

“He tends to try and keep a dressing gown on at all times because of it. That way he can quickly tie the robe shut and avoid getting beaten about the head by angry aunts because he’s exposed himself to a bunch of school children.”

“Okay, you can stop now!” Greg said quickly, raising his hands up so he would be spared any more visuals like that.

“Anyway, he might even be on the Disc already. I’m not sure how long it was going to take for him to investigate the methods this wizard used to move so many people between worlds at once.”

“Okay. So, the summoning works just as well if he’s already on the world he’s called to?”

“Probably better I suspect.”

“Right, well it’s good to know that when someone starts hurling fireballs at us, we have someone who can hurl them right back.”

“It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

“Exactly.”

Sam looked around and noticed that everyone had finished eating breakfast. “Okay, let’s get going. It shouldn’t take long to get to where we’re going, and I want to make sure we’re all set up before dark.”

oOoOo

It only took the group until mid morning to reach the spot that they had identified as the best area to ambush the rogue werewolves. It was halfway up the side of a mountain and the road happily wound its way around huge boulders, easily the size of small houses. The trees were some kind of fir and the chill air had a crisp scent to it.

Detritus pulled the coach off the road behind one of the boulders where there was a convenient flat spot and they all clambered out. Buggy mounted his falcon and took off, starting to scout for the wolves from the air, whilst the others started to look for an area to set up a temporary camp. They had only rough guestimates of how fast the wolves could travel and there was the possibility they would be there for a day or two before they intercepted them.

They left the road and moved uphill, finding a sheltered spot where they had a good view of the road below and would spot anyone approaching. Sally (wearing a wide brimmed hat with a kerchief over her face, as well as a long sleeved shirt and trousers, and black leather gloves) cleared an area for a small fire pit, quickly getting a small fire going. Greg watched warily, wondering if a vampire should really be that close to flames, but it didn’t appear to be a problem. She had shown him the small vial of blood she wore around her neck on a chain, so if she was reduced somehow to a small pile of ash, the vial would break and restore her.

Detritus and Bluejohn covered the coach with large branches that they broke off trees, camouflaging it so it wouldn’t be seen from the road, then they ambled up the slope to join the others. Sam decided that they wouldn’t lay out sleeping bags until Buggy reported back - there was little point setting up camp proper if it was going to be all over by sunset. Instead, they made a pot of tea and sat around talking quietly.

It was several hours later that the gnome returned, his falcon screeching as he circled the site, then flaring its wings and landing atop Detritus’ head. “ ‘M not a landin’ site,” the troll grumbled as the bird immediately relieved itself down his back.

“Ah, quit yer whinging,” Buggy told him, dismounting and jumping down onto his colleague’s shoulder. “The wee beasties ain’t goin’ ta reach us till probably lunchtime t’morrow,” he reported to Sam. “I got a good look at yer fella’s and they seem t’be hale and hearty - just sleepin’.”

Both Greg and Sam let out sighs of relief at the news. “Right, looks like we’re here for the night. You lot start getting the provisions from the coach - Greg and I are going to get us some magical backup.” He gestured for the DI to join him and they walked away from the camp, neither needing to voice the suddenly lighthearted feeling they were both experiencing at knowing that their partners hadn’t been harmed. They came to a halt in a large natural clearing. “I don’t want him arriving in the middle of a tree stump,” he muttered.

“Somehow I don’t think he’d be impressed,” Greg agreed.

“Right, here goes.” Sam cleared his throat, looking more than a little self conscious, and then in a loud, clear voice, he began to chant. “Chrestomanci. Chrestomanci. Chrestomanci.”

Between one breath and another, Christopher stood before them. But he wasn’t alone.

Clutching at his shirt with both hands, was a man with an angry snarl on his face, and a mop of ebony curls.

“Sherlock?” Greg exclaimed.


	15. In Which Sherlock Explains Why He Throttled Chrestomanci

“Dammit, Sherlock!” Christopher snapped as he pulled out of his grasp.

The lanky detective was looking around, the scowl gone from his face as he calmly took in the fact that he had suddenly been transported to another world. “Interesting,” was all he said.

“What the hell?” Sam exclaimed. “I thought It was only inanimate objects you were touching that were taken with you, like clothes or teacups.” He scratched at his head. “Afterall, it’s only _you_ who wears the dressing gowns constantly, not Millie…”

Greg nodded, having been thinking the exact same thing (because if so, every Chrestomanci would have most likely stayed decidedly celibate after the first awkward occurrence), and Sherlock’s head whipped round at the suggestion that something out of the ordinary had just occurred.

“Normally that’s true,” the enchanter said. He stepped towards Sherlock and grasped his hand, raising it up. Greg could see the detective’s fist was clasped around something. “Normally the person touching me isn’t holding anything silver.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock gasped. He opened his hand and displayed the silver tie pin he was holding.

“Isn’t that?” Greg asked softly.

Blue-green eyes met his and the younger man nodded solemnly. “Yes, it’s the tie pin you got my brother for his birthday.”

The DI crossed the few paces to where Sherlock was standing and reached out to gently pick up the pin. “Why do you have it?” he asked, curious.

Sherlock shrugged, unable to meet Greg’s eyes and he realised his friend was embarrassed. “I thought I’d pack up your things and have them taken back to London and found it while I was doing that.”

“And?”

“And that’s why I have it.”

“That doesn’t explain why you were throttling Christopher whilst holding it.”

“Oh, um, it’s not important,” he muttered.

Greg had never seen Sherlock act like this before and he was utterly confused. Normally he was vocal about all his actions, confident he was in the right. “He was demanding to know what I was doing to find his brother,” Christopher broke in. “He stormed into the living room, waving that pin around and wasn’t happy when I told him what I knew so far.”

Greg looked at the detective, whose cheeks were turning rosy and was still refusing to look at him. “Oh, sunshine, you’re concerned for your brother. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that.”

“I’ve not always treated him well,” he admitted in a very small voice. “What if I don’t get the opportunity to make up for that?”

Without warning, Greg pulled him into a crushing hug, earning him a squeak of protest from Sherlock. “You utter fool,” he berated him. “We know that you don’t like to show it, but Mycroft _does_ know that you love him, Sherlock.”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far…”

Greg squeezed him tighter for a moment, causing his to squark this time. “Yes you do, you berk - you admitted it back at the manor.” He finally let the taller man go, who rubbed at his stomach and winced, and Greg suddenly remembered that Sherlock had been injured. “Oops, sorry.”  He held out the tie pin. “How bout you hold onto this for now, give it back to Mycroft when we get him back?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a little and he gingerly reached for the pin. He swallowed hard, and went to reply, but for once didn't seem to have any words. Eventually he just nodded, and tucked the pin away safely in his jacket pocket.

“Well, welcome back to the Disc,” Sam told them. “We’ve set up camp a little ways over there so why don’t we get you both caught up on where we’re at?”

They picked their way through the woods and were soon entering their makeshift camp. Sally was perched on a rock, chopping up bacon into small chunks and adding it to a pot that was nestled on the side of the fire pit. Using a wooden spoon that was as tall as he was, Buggy was slowly stirring the pot as more ingredients were added. Bluejohn had collected firewood, which mostly consisted of an entire dead tree and he was using his massive hands to simply snap it into smaller pieces. Detritus was making a final trip from the coach with the last of their supplies, and Angua was expertly erecting tents.

“Right, I think you’ve both met everyone before when you’ve visited in the past,” Sam said.

“Indeed we have,” Christopher said.

“Sherlock!” Sally exclaimed, grinning at him, a hint of fang showing. “I wasn’t expecting you here.”

“I wasn’t expecting to be here, but here I am.” He gave her a cheeky smile and Greg had to wonder what the history was there. He’d not seen the vampire behave so animatedly towards anyone as yet. He assumed it was something to do with Sherlock’s incessant need to understand _everything_ about matters that caught his attention and he shuddered as he thought of the experiments he could have run with the help of a vampire. He’d heard it mentioned that Sally was a ‘black ribboner’ which meant that she didn’t drink blood at all, so at least those experiments wouldn’t have run into the realms of ‘did A positive or O negative blood taste better?’.

Suddenly, Sherlock clutched involuntarily at his stomach and groaned. Greg and Sam were at his side in an instant and helped him to sit down. “What’s wrong?” the Commander asked.

Removing a hand from his stomach and holding it up, showing it covered in blood was the reply. “Ah bugger, looks like you’ve popped a few stitches,” Greg muttered.

In an instant, Sally was on her feet and heading away from the camp, but no one called her out on it. Although she had adapted quite well to going B-Total, sometimes it was harder than others.

“This is why it’s a good idea _not_ to attack an enchanter while injured,” Christopher drawled, shaking his head at Sherlock.

“Yes, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” the detective gasped. “Though the bear hug didn't help,” he added, throwing an exasperated look at Greg who gave an apologetic shrug.

Angua rummaged about in the packs and pulled out a small medical kit. “I’m not as good as Igor, but I’m not too bad at stitching up wounds. Especially those kinds.” Her eyes had darkened as Sam had peeled back Sherlock’s shirt to reveal the gashes and she had recognised the damage caused by a wolf.

“Do it,” Sherlock said with a nod.

Without anesthetic on hand, Greg knew it was going to hurt like a bitch so he lay a blanket in front of a rock, sat on it and had them position Sherlock up against his chest so he could hold him steady. The brothers used the same expensive shampoo and he caught a whiff of it as he wrapped his arms around the detective’s chest. He suddenly missed his partner so much that it felt like he’d been kicked in the guts. Again. Holiday season or not, when they got Mycroft back, he was taking a few extra days off work so they could go somewhere by themselves.  He wasn’t going to let Mycroft out of his sight - or his bed.

Angua dipped a cloth in some water and cleaned the wounds, patting them as dry as she could. Blood was still oozing from the opened stitches and she gestured for Buggy to assist her. She tore a smaller piece of cloth and handed it to the gnome, who then settled onto the bony prominence of one of Sherlock’s hips so he could reach forward and dab at the blood as it escaped. She then took a deep breath and picked up the needle and thread.

“Sherlock, in the Robertson case, what was the uncle’s alibi again?” Greg asked.

“What?” the younger man asked. “Why do you want to discuss that no - _ow_!” He hissed at the feel of the needle slipping through his skin, and realised what Greg was trying to do. “Um, he, he said that he was rich enough, so he didn...didn’t need to kill his sister for the money.”

“Right. And take me through step by step again just how you figured out that he was lying out of his arse?”

Sherlock started to recount his deductions, and Greg held him tight so he wouldn’t move, but all the while he was wondering just how he was going to keep the younger man out of the fray tomorrow. He knew that he would insist on partaking, especially given his sudden protective instinct towards his older sibling, but throwing yourself into a fight with a pack of werewolves, whilst already injured from a fight with a pack of werewolves, was not the best idea in the world. Greg’s mind was coming up with a blank, but at least he had the night to come up with a solution, and he was confident that he would. Afterall, they’d come here to rescue a Holmes, not lose another.


	16. In Which Greg and Sam Are Put To Use As Heaters

The temperature plummeted as the sun went down and no one seemed inclined to make it a late night. The tents that they had set up were made of thin canvas but as they sat huddled around the fire, even that small protection from the wind that whipped about them seemed like a luxury. Greg was keeping a close watch on Sherlock, knowing that the lanky genius felt the cold more than most people. When his teeth started to chatter, the DI made the decision that they should head to bed. “Come on, Sherlock. Time to hit the sack.”

The detective looked up and then around at the tents. “Oh, right. Um...I guess you didn’t plan on having an extra body tonight.”

“There’s more than enough room in with Sam and I. I’m a bit of a furnace so you should be kept warm enough.”

“So am I,” Sam commented. “Havelock is always bitching about me on summer nights.”

Sherlock’s eyes had lit up at this, but he kept the enthusiasm from his voice, sounding like his normally waspish self when he replied, “I suppose I can put up with you both for one night if I must.”

“It’ll be a hardship I know, but as you said, it’s only for one night.” Greg really hoped that come tomorrow night he’d get to fall asleep with a different Holmes brother at his side.

Bluejohn offered to take first watch, the troll sounding much more articulate in the cold climate and as he settled down on the outskirts of their camp, Greg heard him reciting poetry to himself. Everyone else made the decision to retire for the evening as well, and Greg and Sherlock followed Sam into the tent. It was a little crowded but they were soon all settled under the blankets, laying both of them over the top of the three of them so they could share them. Sherlock was lying between the two older men and Greg suppressed a yelp as cold fingers brushed against his neck as Sherlock fidgeted as he got comfortable.

He soon settled but Greg could feel him continue to shiver from the cold. Ten minutes later the younger man still hadn’t warmed up and so the DI rolled over and slung an arm over his waist and pulled him snug against him. Sherlock started to protest but as soon as his body was pressed against the human heat pack he quickly shut up and snuggled in closer. “So warm,” he muttered.

Greg smirked in the darkness. “I told you so. You’ll probably get hot before long.”

“Doubt it,” Sherlock replied, his teeth continuing to chatter. “I could fall asleep in a volcano and still be cold.”

The consulting detective wasn’t exaggerating as Greg quickly learned. Sherlock continued to shiver, even though by now, Mycroft would have rolled as far away from Greg as he could to stop from overheating. “Sam, would you mind?” Greg asked.

“Sure, as long as you’re okay with that?” he asked, directed at the younger man.

“P...pl...please,” Sherlock stammered.

The Commander rolled over as well and plastered himself against Sherlock’s back and it was only then, sandwiched between the two sources of extreme body heat, that the shivers diminished. A few minutes later they had stopped altogether and not long after that, Sherlock’s breathing evened out as he fell asleep.

“The paths my life takes me,” Sam muttered in the dark.

Greg grinned. “Was cuddling in a tent with two men from another world not on the plan?”

“If it was, Havelock never signed off on it.”

“I’m sure he’ll forgive you this one time.”

“He’s good like that,” Sam agreed. “If I wake up in the morning with anything poking against me though, _I_ won’t be as forgiving,” he warned.

“Keep morning wood to oneself - noted.”

Sam snorted out a laugh. “Thanks, Greg.”

“Anytime.” Sherlock twitched in his sleep and Greg’s nose was assaulted with another blast of that familiar scent. The smile fell from his face and he felt almost overwhelmed with the desire for this whole nightmare to be over. The only solace he could take was that the man on the other side of the tent knew exactly how he was feeling, since he was in the same boat. “Night, Sam,” he said quietly.

“Night, Greg.”

oOoOo

Greg was awake at first light, but found he couldn’t move due to having a lanky, curly haired Holmes wrapped about him like an octopus. His first instinct was to push the man off him, but he paused, and then just allowed himself to be cuddled. It wasn’t often the Consulting Prat was affectionate, even after knowing him for almost a decade and being practically family for the past year. Greg was a naturally affectionate person, especially with his friends and it had been a long road to train himself from withholding the casual touches, pats on the back, and hugs he’d wanted to bestow upon the younger man over the years. Sherlock was so much like the younger brother that he’d always wanted, and now that the man was being tactile (even if it was unconsciously) he was going to make the most of it.

Besides, he was warm and dammit but it was cold this morning.

He wrapped his own arm around Sherlock’s shoulder to return the embrace. A glance over Sherlock’s shoulder showed that Sam was already up and about, probably seeing to the horses and checking on the perimeter. There was the murmur of voices coming from the direction of the campfire and it smelled like someone had coffee brewing. Greg’s stomach gave a small rumble, and that low sound was enough to rouse his snuggle buddy from his sleep.

Sherlock lifted his head and blinked owlishly, then yawned, but otherwise didn’t move from his position. “Morning, sunshine,” Greg greeted him with just the hint of amusement in his voice. “Comfy?”

“Mmm, very,” Sherlock replied, and let his head fall back down to pillow on Greg’s shoulder.

It was sign enough that the younger man was genuinely concerned about his brother and their friend that he was seeking out comfort from the DI. “Make the most of it, I suppose, since we don’t know what today will bring.”

There was a long minute of silence and then Sherlock asked, more hesitantly than Greg thought possible for the genius, “We’ll get him back, won’t we?”

“Of course we will,” he replied, with more confidence than he actually felt. “I love Mycroft, and I’ll do anything it takes to get him back.”

“Have you already forgotten what happened back at the manor?” the detective asked with his usual snarkiness. “We have no defences against them, Greg! Maybe if we’d brought guns with us, but what are we supposed to do with just our bare hands?”

“I’m sure even you can see why we chose to bring the people we did. Trolls aren’t exactly powerless, Sherlock.”

“But we are!”

Greg sighed, and decided he may as well bring it up now. “Not we - me. You’re sitting this one out.”

“ _What_?” Sherlock exclaimed, pulling himself free of Greg’s embrace so he could glare at him. “There’s no chance in hell you’re benching me.”

“You’re injured and are a liability to us.”

“How am I a liability?”

“Because I’ll be too worried about you to concentrate on anything else. I’m not going to risk you getting killed - your brother would never forgive me!”

“If I don’t help, it might be _Mycroft_ getting killed! Besides, it’s not my fault that you’re too incompetent to keep your concentration where it needs to be!”

“That wasn’t fair, Sherlock, and you know it,” Greg admonished.

Sherlock huffed, but flopped back down onto his human pillow. “Fine, sorry.”

“What was that?”

“I’m not going to repeat it so if you didn't hear it the first time, tough.”

The DI bit back a smile. “Apology accepted.”

“Oh, so you _did_ hear it,” the younger man muttered.

“So, you’ll be reasonable and sit this one out?” Greg asked, getting the subject back on track.

“To start with,” he agreed. “However, if it looks like help is needed, or if my brother is in dire need of assistance that none of you are providing, then I reserve the right to jump into the fray.”

Greg nodded. “That’s the most I can expect. Thank you. Now, shall we get up? I think we’re going to have a busy day.”

“Not just yet - I’m toasty and warm and I’d like to stay that way for a little longer.”

“And it’s nice to be cuddled, isn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied loftily.

“I’m sure you don’t. So, you won’t mind if I get up then?”

Sherlock’s arms tightened slightly around him. “If I was pressed on the matter, I _may_ admit that the feeling is not unpleasant.”

“When we get home, I’m going to have a shirt made that says ‘I Heart Cuddles’ and I’m going to make you wear it.”

“My brother will be devastated when he comes home from work one day to find you dead with a novelty t shirt stuffed down your throat.”

“I know you don’t think highly of my colleagues but I think even a rookie could solve that case.”

“Won’t make you any less dead.”

“This is true. Fine, I won’t get you the shirt.”

“Excellent. Not do stop talking - you’re making my pillow move.”

“I _am_ your pillow!”

“Exactly.”

 


	17. In Which The Time Has Come

They had packed up the camp and put out the fire, and Buggy was scouting the surrounding areas, keeping a close watch for the werewolves’ approach. Their small party was awash with nervous energy, and no one seemed to be able to sit still. Sherlock was searching for a safe place along the road to remain out of the way, but close enough that he could leap (as best he could whilst injured) to their aid. Sally was pacing, staying downwind from the direction the wolves would come from, not wanting her scent to reach their sensitive noses. The two trolls, their intellects increased due to the cold, were discussing the best strategies to take out as many wolves as possible. Sam was standing at the edge of the campsite, scowling off into nothingness. Angua had slipped into her alternate form, and everyone politely ignored the fact that she was circling the campsite, marking her territory, creating a ‘safe’ zone away from the road where the confrontation would take place. The only one who seemed relatively calm was Christopher and that was because he was sat, snoozing.

The enchanter had emerged from the tent he had shared with Buggy, plus Detritus and Bluejohn between watches, bleary eyed and almost incoherent. He’d not managed a wink of sleep, most likely due to the fact that a sleeping troll ofttimes sounded like a rumbling volcano. Sherlock had smirked, announcing that he’d slept like a baby just to rub it in, and had ignored the death glare the man sent him. His years of sibling rivalry had made him all but immune to murderous glances. After Christopher had guzzled two cups of the strong, Klatchian coffee, he had woken enough to announce that he was going to try and nap. Sam had scoffed, pointing out that the thick, Klatchian brew could keep a corpse awake and there was no way he’d manage to sleep, but Christopher had proven him wrong. He’d magicked a dressing gown out of thin air, wrapped himself up, and promptly fallen asleep.

An hour later, Buggy’s falcon appeared, flaring its wings as it landed amongst the gathered group. “The wee doggies are just comin’ up the valley,” he informed them. “I give it half an hour ‘fore they’re on us.”

Sam’s eyes flicked to Greg’s and they shared a grim look. This was it. “Right, everyone get into position. I don’t want them to even know that we’re here until it’s too late.”

They worked their way down to the area where the road wound its way up the mountain, between the massive boulders that lined either side, creating a type of corridor. The two trolls settled themselves some distance apart, hiding amongst the boulders and blending in almost seamlessly. The others were positioned uphill from the road, the plan being that the wolves would enter the area, pass Detritus, but before they reached Bluejohn, the trolls would show themselves, blocking the escape. Then with the wolves boxed in, the others would attack; hopefully with the element of surprise they would quickly gain the upperhand.

Hopefully.

Greg still wasn’t convinced but really, what choice did they have? It was their best hope of getting Mycroft and Havelock back. He crouched down low, his ears straining for any sound to alert him of the enemy’s approach. They were likely too far away still to detect them, but there was little else to do.

There was a shuffling beside him and he looked up to see Sherlock positioning himself next to him. “What are you doing?” he almost snarled. “We agreed you’d stay put!”

The detective shrugged. “The more I thought about it, the more I realised I’ll be needed.”

“For the last time, _you are injured_. You are going to be no use to us in a fight.” This was the last thing he needed right now.

Sherlock regarded him calmly. “I’m not planning on fighting, Greg.”

“Then what is your plan, genius?”

“Once we’re on them, I’m hoping they’ll be too distracted to keep a close watch on their captives. Christopher is going to break whatever spell they’re under and then I’ll help them to safety.”

Greg turned his frown towards the enchanter who was crouching in his own hiding spot several yards away. “Oh, you’ve already discussed this, have you?”

Christopher shrugged in apology. “It makes sense, Greg. Havelock and Mycroft will likely be disorientated after being kept in a magically induced slumber for so long, but they need to be awake to make it easier to get them out of there.”

“Does anyone else have any variations to the plan they’d like to spring on me last second?” he demanded.

“Calm down, Greg,” Sherlock said, more kindly than the words implied.

He swallowed down a retort and gave his head a quick shake. “Fine, whatever. Just watch your damn back, Sherlock. I mean it - you get yourself killed and I’ll be following soon after because Mycroft and John will murder me for putting you in danger.”

The younger man nodded contritely, and Greg caught the sympathetic look Sam threw his way. He just wanted this whole situation to be over with, done and dusted so they could get back to their regular lives. Not that his regular life could be considered _normal_ , what with dating Mycroft and working with Sherlock. For their ridiculous vocabularies, the Holmes boys didn’t know the definition of the word ‘normal’. There was always some mystery to solve, a murderer to catch, or political intrigue to navigate. It was never boring, and it wasn’t exactly _safe_ , but at the same time, the life-or-death occurrences were few and far between. It was the norm for Greg and he wanted nothing more than to be immersed in that world once more.

From high above, the falcon circled, the signal that the wolves had intersected the road and were making their way up the pass. Everyone’s focus was suddenly razor sharp as they waited with bated breath. The minutes dragged out, long and labourious, and just as the wave of anticipation was cresting, a lone wolf appeared on the road, rounding the bend that hid the rest of the beaten path from sight.

It was large, with black shaggy fur, and even from here, Greg could see that the eyes were far too human to belong to a regular wolf. It paused as it regarded the stretch of road ahead, its head cocking to one side. The wolf’s nose sniffed at the air and a small whine escaped it throat, obviously picking up a hint of a threat but being unable to determine what was causing its hackles to rise. The large beast paced to and fro, and soon another joined it, smaller and a golden brown. On the other side of Sam, Greg heard Angua growl low in her throat, quiet enough to not reach even the sharpest of wolf ears, but loud enough for Greg to determine that she recognised the smaller beast. Taking a leaf from Sherlock’s book, he used what he knew to deduce that it was Angua’s mother.

The rest of the pack had caught up with the scout wolf now, and Greg’s heart lurched in his chest. A sled was pulled into view and he caught the first glance of his partner since he’d been taken, so many nights ago. Mycroft and Havelock were laying, still as death on the sled, a thick blanket pulled over them. If he didn’t know they were in a magic induced slumber, he’d have thought them dead. A hand clamped down on his arm and he realised he had automatically gone to stand, to rush to his lover’s aid. He settled back down and Sherlock gave him a small smile, and let go of his arm.

The wolves remained on the road for a few minutes, and the large black wolf morphed back into his human form briefly, assessing the area ahead and discussing it with the tall, ragged looking man who accompanied them. Even without the pointy hat, it was clear he was the rogue wizard who had assisted the transport between worlds. They must have determined that the risk was minimal as the werewolf quickly slipped back into his four legged form and led the pack onwards.

A minute later the trap was sprung.

 

 


	18. In Which The Watch Battle With Wolves

Detritus stepped out in front of the wolves, halting their advance. The scout wolf growled a warning to the rest of the pack, and as one, they halted and turned. Bluejohn was already blocking the exit though and they formed up as one furry huddle, seeking protection in their numbers. There were twelve wolves altogether, seven were much larger than the others. They flanked the smaller wolves - one of which was the grey wolf Greg had identified as Angua’s mother, who in turned were clustered around the sled. The wizard hunched down in the centre, next to the unconscious men, and even from here Greg could see the fear in his eyes. He remained calm though, and he scanned the area, trying to assess what was happening. It was he who first thought to look up, and the DI remembered Sam explaining that the longer the shapeshifters stayed in their animal forms, the less they could reason like a human. They seemed to be acting entirely from animal instinct, but the wizard was able to rationalise what was going on.

Knowing that it was only a matter of time before they lost the element of surprise, Sam whistled sharply, and they all sprung from their places of concealment. Christopher made straight for the man in the pointy hat, throwing a spell to disorientate the wizard before he could call upon magic of his own. The trolls lumbered forward, and already there were whines and howls as two of the larger wolves were plucked from the ground and thrown viscously against the rocks. Sally had leapt onto the back of one of the wolves, her fangs extended. The wolf was snarling and spitting, the hatred for the vampire evident even as it fought. Angua had leapt into the fray to confront her mother, a red ribbon tied around one of her back paws so the party could easily distinguish friend from foe. Although they had all spent the past few days with her, in the heat of the moment it wouldn’t do to have them mistaking her for one of the enemy. Buggy was dive bombing the wolves, his falcon’s sharp claws aiming for eyes and snouts. Greg and Sam were sticking close to one another, fighting back to back as they took on the shapeshifters. Sam had slipped a metal contraption that looked like knuckle dusters onto his hand and was laying out the wolves with powerful sweeps of his fists, while Greg was falling back on everything he’d learned as a young bloke who had been involved in more than a few pub brawls.

The two coppers worked their way steadily through the pack, heading for the sled, hoping to draw off the wolves that were guarding their captives. They dodged fangs, claws, and the odd, crackling bolt of magic that flew through the air from where the two magic users were battling fiercely. Detritus crashed through the area in front of them, cleaning up two of the smaller werewolves, flinging them away like plush toys and then pummeling them until they stayed down. One of the bigger males stepped in front of Greg and then launched at him, the gigantic paws hitting him square in the chest and bowling him over backwards. Sam attacked it from behind as Greg fought to keep the snapping fangs at bay, and from the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock dodging his way through the fight, heading towards his brother. He didn’t see if he was successful or not as a claw got too close for comfort and scratched a long line down his throat, tugging over his windpipe. Adrenaline surged through him and with a strength he normally didn't possess, he shoved the wolf off him. The Commander was instantly on top of the creature, smashing a fist into its face with brutal accuracy.

It felt like an eternity before the creature stopped fighting, falling limp to the ground, and the two man gasped for breath as they stole a moment to recover. Greg’s eyes flickered across to where the sled was laying, and he saw that both Sherlock and Christopher were bending over the occupants. A look about saw the wizard unconscious on the ground, his robes smoking slightly from whatever spells had incapacitated him. Other than a fierce battle that was raging between Angua and her mother, the rest of the pack seemed to have been taken care of by the rest of the Watchmen so Greg grabbed Sam’s elbow and led him over to where their partners lay.

The men were both pale - paler than usual - and lying very still. Christopher had a vague look on his face which Greg had come to learn meant that he was focussed intently on whatever lay before him. Sherlock’s face was flickering rapidly between annoyance at the delay in waking his brother, and deep concern. Greg found it rather disconcerting to say the least. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, kneeling down next to the sled and laying a possessive hand on Mycroft’s cheek.

“I’m not sure,” Christopher said slowly. “They should be responding to the spell that I used to break the enchantment, and it looks to have worked. Except they’re not waking up.”

“So it clearly hasn’t worked,” Sherlock snapped.

Christopher shook his head. “No, I think it’s something else. I don’t think this has a magical cause to it. I think it’s physical.”

“Physical?” Sam asked, his voice steady but fear in his eyes. Greg knew exactly how he felt. Mycroft looked like he was in a coma and even just the thought of him being rendered as such permanently struck a terrifying chord.

“It’s truly hard to say,” the enchanter told them. “Especially stuck out here. I think we need to get them back to Unseen University as soon as we can.”

Greg took hold of the limp hand of his partner, hoping that Mycroft would somehow know that he was there. He nodded, but didn’t say anything, and focussed his attention beyond the tall man to the rest of their party.

Sally and the two trolls had moved about the site of the battle and secured any werewolves that had survived the encounter with silver cuffs. It looked like the death count had been fairly low, and although Greg didn’t particularly care one way or the other about that right now, he was sure that once he’d calmed down, he’d be grateful for it. It seemed that some of the shapeshifters turned back into their human forms when injured, but others didn’t. Whichever form they were in once the cuffs were snapped onto either wrist or paw would be the shape they’d remain in until they were removed.

Angua was standing over her mother, her jaws clamped around her neck, holding her down. Sally slowly approached the two wolves, holding her hands up in placation. She gave Angua a small smile and said in her calmest voice, “Why don’t you allow me to detain her so you can go somewhere private and change back?”

A low growl escaped the younger wolf's throat and she seemed to be struggling with the concept of handing over one of her kind - no matter how guilty - to a vampire. Eventually her jaw relaxed and she took a step back from her mother. Before Sally could even get close, there was a slight shimmer in the air and then a very naked woman lay on the ground. The vampire moved in quickly to secure the pack leader with a pair of silver cuffs, and pulled her to her feet. With more compassion that the situation had warranted, Sally removed her coat and draped it around the shoulders of the werewolf, protecting her from the cold. Angua loped away in the direction of the concealed coach and a few minutes later she walked back onto the road, fully dressed. She nodded once to Sally and then took over guarding her mother.

“We’re not going to fit everyone, plus the prisoners onto the coach,” Sherlock was saying to Sam. Greg glanced over at the detective who had sat down next to him and made sure to hide the smile that appeared on his lips as he saw the young man absently smooth down a lock of hair that had curled over Mycroft’s forehead. It appeared that Sherlock was experiencing the phenomenon of not knowing how much your family meant to you until they were gone. Hopefully - for both their sakes - Mycroft would wake up soon. With a little luck it might be a turning point in the rather acerbic sibling relationship.

The Commander had sat himself down on the opposite side of the sled to Greg and he looked as weary and tired as the DI was. He was staring intently at Havelock’s face, seeming to be trying to will the man awake by the force of his thoughts alone. His eyes finally flickered up to acknowledge Sherlock’s observation. “I’ll send Buggy ahead to the next town and have him arrange a coach to be sent here. Detritus and Bluejohn can stay with them here until it arrives and can escort them back to Ankh Morpork. I’ll be wanting to have a chat with those two though -” He gestured towards Angua’s mother and the wizard, “- and I may as well start on the way.” His eyes narrowed and his next words came out in a chilling snarl. “The trip might not take long considering the upgrades Ridcully gave us, but I promise to make it feel like the longest ride of their lives.”

 

 

 


	19. In Which They Return To Ankh Morpork And There Is A Happy Ending

Despite Sam’s promise to do whatever it took to get information from the werewolf and the wizard, he didn’t manage to get anything from them on the trip home. Greg had been up top for the duration of the ride back - there was more room on the roof than the inside so they had managed to lay Mycroft and Havelock down up there. He had stayed sitting next to the two men, ensuring the blankets stayed firmly tucked around them and watching them for any sign that they were stirring. Sherlock sat opposite him, an expression of intense concentration on his face the entire time as he tried to figure out what was wrong with them. Greg heard him muttering to himself, and from time to time he would reach over to take a pulse or check for pupil dilation.

Sally had offered to stay with the trolls to keep an eye on the prisoners and to drive the second coach back to town when it had arrived. Christopher was driving their own coach, and once Buggy had caught back up with them, he had joined Sam and Angua inside with their two captives. His falcon was perched on the outside railing next to Greg, feathers ruffling gently in the breeze.

It was the younger werewolf that filled Greg in on the going on’s of the interior when they made their final stop before completing their journey. “He’s going too easy on them,” she admitted, kicking at a rock. “Ever since the Summoning Dark almost took him, he always stays too far back from the edge. He won’t allow himself to let his anger loose. With regular perps that might be fine, but I know my mother - Mister Nice guy isn’t going to cut it. He’s not going to get anything from her like this, and as long as she doesn’t crack, the wizard won’t either.”

The DI had nodded, understanding Sam’s reluctance to cross the line he’d drawn in the sand. If he was in the Commander’s shoes, he was doubtful that he’d be able to either. If either of their partners had died, it would be a whole other story, but since they were both still in the land of the living ( _for now_ a traitorous voice in his head added) they had no reason to lose their composure. “You just have to trust that he knows what he’s doing,” Greg told her, giving her arm a squeeze.

“I do trust him,” she replied, an odd tone in her voice. He grasped that it was unusual for her to have such trust in someone and the fact that Sam had hers left the wolf a little nervous.

“He’ll figure out a way to get her to talk.”

“He might not need to,” Sherlock announced, walking over with a triumphant expression on his voice. “I’m pretty sure that they’ve been drugged or poisoned and I’ve narrowed it down to one of four possible compounds. As soon as we get back to town, I’ll work with Cheery and Igor to take some blood and run some tests. It won’t take long to get some answers and then find something to counteract whatever they’ve been dosed with.”

Greg couldn’t help himself - he surged forward and pulled the detective into a crushing hug. “I _knew_ you’d figure it out.”

The taller man winced as he pulled away, rubbing at his ribs. “Yes, well, Mycroft has been idle enough lately. We can’t have him thinking that he can just lounge around getting fat, so it’s high time he stops being a lump and wakes up.”

The DI grinned at the disguised concern Sherlock had for his brother. It was hidden behind a sharp tongue and a barrage of insults, but it was clear he loved his older brother dearly. “I’ll go tell Sam the good news,” he said instead. “I’m sure he’ll want to be back on the road ASAP.”

The Commander had said little when told the news, just turned and asked Buggy to fly on ahead and have Cheery and Igor meet them at the watch house. He’d then signalled for them that their break was over and they were moving on. Christopher had been examining the contraption Ridcully had made up for the coach, and Greg saw his lips moving slightly as he touched the wood of the wheels. He had a feeling that the enchanter was adding his own touches to coax even more speed from the coach, but he didn’t seek clarification. The entire set up made him feel more than a little uncomfortable and the less he knew about it, the better. Engines and machines he could have faith in, but magic was a whole different kettle of fish.

Greg and Sherlock resumed their places on top of the carriage to watch over the two unconscious men, and the Commander and Angua returned to watch over their prisoners. Even knowing that they had a plan in place, Sam would still try to draw the information from the werewolf, hoping to expedite the healing process for his partner and friend. Greg didn’t hold out much hope that he would succeed but knew the man had to try.

It only took them two more hours to reach the city, and half of that was because they had to drop to regular speeds once the approached the heavily trafficked roads closer to the metropolis. They made directly for the watch house and Greg recognised the dwarf he’d met from his first time at the watch house. No matter how much he looked, if it weren’t for the small pink hair bows securing the two braids in her beard, and the leather skirt, he’d have had no idea that she was a female.

“Igor is waiting for us in the lab,” Cheery told Sam as he dismounted from the coach.

“Thanks.” He turned to the two Roundworlders and the DI could see how hard it was for him to say the next few sentences. “I’ll need to process our prisoners and begin the interviews. I’ll trust Havelock to your hands, Sherlock. Greg - watch over him.” It had taken everything he had to put the job before his family.

Greg clasped his forearm. “I will, Sam. I’ll send word as soon as we hear anything if we don’t see you first.”

The Commander nodded, and Christopher added, “I’ll join you, Sam. You might need me when dealing with the wizard.” They then turned and entered the watch house, Sam barking orders for several men to escort the prisoners down to the cells, and several more to help move the two unconscious men to Igor’s lab. Greg tried not to hover as his partner was transferred to a stretcher and then moved into the building, and he and Sherlock followed them down to the basement level.

The room was dimly lit; the lamps serving to enhance the shadows rather than illuminate. It was cold, and two metal tables sat in the middle of the room, giving the room a very morgue-like atmosphere. When the officers transferred Mycroft and Havelock onto the tables, Greg felt a shiver go through him and swallowed hard. It was a nightmare he’d often had - of having to come to the morgue and identify his lover - and the visual he had was too close to the bone.

“Mathter Sherlock,” a voice lisped from the side of the room. “It’th been too long.”

“Igor,” Sherlock greeted the man, respect in his voice. “I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been back. I promise I’ll return once this is all over so we can do those experiments we planned.”

The man stepped into the light and Greg suppressed a startle at his appearance. He looked like he was out of one of the old horror movies - he shuffled as he walked, appearing almost hunchbacked, a row of stitches ran down one cheek, and his hands were different skin tones to the other, making it appear as if one of them was not the hand he was born with.

“Greetingth, I’m Igor,” the odd man said to Greg, holding out one of the mismatched hands to shake.

“Hello. Greg Lestrade,” the DI replied, giving the hand a quick shake and then shifting imperceptibly closer to Sherlock by instinct.

Cheery appeared behind them and she moved directly across to her two patients. “Buggy said that you had a theory?” she said to Sherlock without preamble.

He nodded and launched into an explanation, rattling off the names of various substances that he thought it could be. Both Cheery and Igor listened closely, and both added their opinions to Sherlock’s, trying to identify several compounds that were called different things here on the Disc. Greg spotted an old stool in one corner and pulled it up to the side of the table where Mycroft lay, and took hold of his hand. He felt utterly useless but had to trust that these people would discover what was keeping his partner in such a deep sleep. He rubbed his thumb absently over the back of a pale hand, watching the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest.

Soon the three scientists drew blood from both men and then they began to run certain tests, adding powders and liquids to drops and watching the reaction. They spoke quietly amongst themselves as they worked, and Greg gave up on listening in, knowing he wouldn’t understand most of what they were saying. After a time, Sam came and joined him in his vigil, having gotten nothing from the werewolf.

“Christopher is having a go at the wizard now,” he explained. “I figured if I stuck around any longer, there was a good chance I was going to punch someone so I may as well come down here.”

“Good idea,” Greg agreed.

“Are they getting anywhere?” the Commander asked, linking his fingers with Havelock’s.

The DI shrugged. “I’m not sure. It looks pretty complicated.”

He nodded glumly and they continued to sit in silence for the next hour. That was when Sherlock let out a yell of victory, causing Cheery and Igor to hurry to his side and for Greg and Sam to look over with hope in their eyes. “What is it?” Sam asked.

“It looks like they’ve been drugged with the nectar of the Oopsie Daisy,” Cheery told them as she peered at the glass vial Sherlock was holding up. “It’s very rare and only found in certain valleys of the northern Ramtops.”

“Is there a cure?” Greg asked, crossing the fingers of his free hand.

The dwarf beamed at them and nodded, her braids bobbing up and down. “Of all the substances we tested for, this is actually the easiest to counteract. I have everything we’ll need on hand and it’ll only take me ten minutes to whip it up.”

After all they’d been through, it was almost surreal to suddenly find that the end was in sight. Both men watched as the dwarf mixed together the cure, directing Igor to fetch her certain jars down from the shelves, Sherlock watching on avidly. Soon she was holding a vial with a pale pink liquid in it and she directed Sam to lift Havelock’s head, and Igor to pry his jaw open. She poured a few drops underneath his tongue and then gestured for his head to be placed back down. “It’ll take a few minutes to take effect,” she told him, then moved around the tables to administer the potion to Mycroft.

If the past few days had felt long to Greg, the next few minutes felt like an eternity. Then suddenly he felt the long fingered hand he held give a small twitch, and a glance at Mycroft’s face showed his eyes moving rapidly beneath his lids. He heard Sam utter a small cry and then the Commander was pulling a dazed looking Havelock into a tight embrace.

There was another twitch of fingers and then Mycroft’s eyes were fluttering open and he was staring up at the DI. “Greg?” he croaked.

“Hey there, welcome back.”

Mycroft’s eyes looked around the room, and his eyes fell on his brother. ‘Sherlock? What are you doing here?”

The detective shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but Greg could see the relief in his eyes. “I was in the area and heard that they needed help getting your lazy arse out of bed.”

Pale blue eyes moved back to Greg’s face and a hand reached up shakily to cup his face. “What happened?”

“That’s a long story and I think it can wait till you’re feeling better, love,” he replied. He leant down to brush their lips together and he hovered there for a moment. “Thank you for coming back to me,” he whispered.

Mycroft looked confused for a moment. “Why would you think I wouldn’t? I’ll always come back to you, Greg.”

The DI chuckled, fighting back tears of relief and just pulled Mycroft close to him. “I know you will, but I’m thankful anyway.”

 

oOoOo

 

Greg sat back on the comfy chair on the back patio of Sam’s house. He looked over and smiled as Young Sam ran around to each of the adults and showed off the two baby swamp dragons that had hatched several days before. Sherlock said a few words to the boy, who happily handed over one of the dragons, and then the two of them began a detailed examination of the hatchlings.

Mycroft appeared at his side and sat down next to him, and immediately Greg reached out and slipped his hand into his lover’s. Since the man had woken up, he’d hardly wanted to be separated from him, but luckily for him, Mycroft felt much the same way. They sat and watched everyone else for a while, just taking a moment to relax.

The back door opened and John and Millie came outside, carrying several plates of food and deposited them on the table. Sam looked over to his son and said, “Go and put them back in their pen, Sam. It’s time to eat.”

The boy pouted but did as he was told, scooping the baby dragon from Sherlock’s hands into his own and disappearing to the far corner of the garden where a rickety looking shed stood.

They all helped themselves to food but before they started to eat, Sam stood and held up his glass of orange juice. “I just wanted to say that I’m so glad we have Havelock and Mycroft back with us. Thanks to everyone who helped return them to Greg and I.” He looked as if he was going to say more, but instead he just shook his head and raised his cup to his lips.

Everyone drank and then dug into their food with gusto, conversations springing up all over the place.

“Did Angua’s mother ever end up talking?” Millie was asking Sam.

The Commander shook his head. “No, she hasn’t said a word. We had all the proof we needed against her and since she didn’t want to raise a defense, she’s been imprisoned. The wizard ended up admitting that he’d been approached and paid by her though, and Ridcully is dealing with him.”

“Do you remember anything at all from the time you were held captive?” John was asking Havelock.

“No, nothing at all I’m afraid.”

“Hmm, it would be interesting to study the compound. The fact that it kept you asleep but you didn't require any assistance to breathe is astounding. It could be a huge breakthrough for medicine.”

“Except for the fact that you couldn’t take it back to your world without upsetting Christopher,” Havelock reminded him.

John’s face fell. “Ah, bugger. I forgot about that pesky rule.”

“I think you’d find Koom valley really interesting,” Cherry was saying to Sherlock. “If you’ve got a good few weeks here, then I definitely recommend getting up there to have a look around.”

“I’ve heard that. I’ll have to see what the others want to do, but I’ll definitely suggest it,” he replied.

Greg smiled as he felt a hand settle on his thigh and give it a squeeze. “Looks like our little holiday is already being planned out,” Mycroft murmured.

“I don’t really mind,” Greg told him. “I’m just so happy Sherlock wanted himself and John to join us. He was really worried about you, you know.”

The diplomat looked pleased. “I’m glad. I don’t think it will last, but I’m glad all the same.”

“You reckon by the end of the trip you’ll be at each other’s throats again?”

“Without a doubt.”

Greg grinned, but found that he wouldn’t mind that in the slightest. He’d get to explore more of this weird and wonderful world, and despite any brotherly bickering, he’d be with the people he considered his family. It was definitely the best way to spend a holiday and he was looking forward to every second.

 

 

 


End file.
